


memento amare

by firewoodfigs



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Government, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Young Royai, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Panic Attacks, Politics, Post-Promised Day, Slow Burn, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24862408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firewoodfigs/pseuds/firewoodfigs
Summary: Riza pays a hefty price when she’s forced to open the Gate in Roy’s stead.
Relationships: Edward Elric & Roy Mustang, Rebecca Catalina & Riza Hawkeye, Rebecca Catalina & Roy Mustang, Rebecca Catalina/Jean Havoc, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 268
Kudos: 274





	1. prologue

The medical reports revealed nothing. Riza’s body was exactly as it had been. There was nothing that Truth had visibly taken away: her limbs were intact, and her internal organs had been mercifully left untouched, but surely there must have been a toll to pay when she opened the Gate. 

_What else could it have taken away from her?_

Roy clenched his fists in anger and guilt, nails biting painfully into his bare palms. It should have been him. It was _him_ that the bastard Fuhrer was after, but Riza had shoved him aside and gone in his stead. By the time the circle was activated he’d been too late - _too late to save her, late late late -_

The memory made him want to throw up again. 

Riza should never have been the one to open the wretched Gate. Hell, it was his fault she was embroiled in the whole mess down there to begin with. She wasn’t the intended sacrifice, but it _worked_ \- using her as a substitute bloody _worked_ , because he had taken it upon himself to teach her basic alchemy once upon a time when they were children. It wasn’t much, just simple things like fixing everyday necessities or boiling a pot of hot water every now and then for her morning coffee whenever the electricity was out. 

But it _worked_ just fine for their dastardly plans, because she had her own Portal and had been coerced into opening it, and now she wouldn’t open her eyes and had been unconscious for days since The Promised Day and _\- damn it, please wake up, Riza!_

They’d won, but with her in this state, loss was the only palpable, discernible emotion that Roy had felt since then. 

He wasn’t even sure if she could hear him at this point, but he’d continued staying by her side, day and night, talking to her about anything. _Anything_ \- the weather, how much he loved her, the latest news, how much he treasured her, and all sorts of gibberish and sweet nothings that he never got to say when they were strictly Colonel and Lieutenant. 

Roy wasn’t the only one worried out of his mind. Everyone had been pacing around restlessly, confused and scared shitless. It took all of his willpower to not snap at them, bark at them to _get the hell out_ and leave him alone with her in bitter, sorrowful solitude. But it would be wrong to do so - they had every right to be worried, and to deprive them of their visitation rights would've just been downright _selfish._

Certainly not the appropriate response to her selflessness that had saved him, and all of them. 

Swallowing the ponderous lump in his throat along with his tears, Roy continued to cling on desperately to Riza’s wounded hand. She’d already been unconscious for several days, and he hadn’t even left her side once. God, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gone home… 

But there was nothing anyone could do or say to convince him to leave her side or pull him out of his disconsolate state. Not even the sight of spring resting peacefully on the shoulders of the Amestrians after the Promised Day could attenuate his depressed mood in the slightest. Havoc regaining his mobility had cheered him up a little, but it only lasted for a fleeting moment before his mind and body gravitated towards Riza’s unconscious being again. 

He just… he had to be with her. Never mind that he hadn’t even slept proper in days. How could he fall into a restful slumber, anyway, when the sight of her being forced to open the Gate plagued him every time he closed his eyes? The only meagre source of comfort he had at this point was being able to see Riza _alive,_ even if she wasn’t awake. 

_You can take my sight, take away everything I have. Just... please, let her be alright._

And finally, _finally_ \- after what surely must have been an eternity - on a particularly sunny and humid morning, Riza began drifting into consciousness. Slowly, but surely. Her eyelids fluttered at the fulgent rays refracting off the window panes brightly, clearly uncomfortable with encountering sunlight after days of dwelling in darkness. 

Roy watched in breathless awe and relief, nearly gasping out loud when her fingers twitched slightly against his. Immediately, he leaned in closer to her, as if to reassure himself he wasn’t hallucinating. 

“Riza?” he called gently, titles be damned. After all they’d gone through the least he could do was do away with that sickening barricade of formality. The only titles he wanted to give her after the purgatory they’d endured were ones of endearment. 

She didn’t respond. 

He tried again, whispering her name like a prayer, a promise. “ _Riza._ Riza, can you hear me?” 

Her eyes cracked open to take in the ghastly paleness of the hospital room, and as she roused from her unconscious state the dreadful smell of antiseptics finally hit her. Riza wrinkled her nose in disdain, coughing slightly. Her throat felt like sandpaper, and her lips were parched. Empty, cracked. The words lay forgotten on the tip of her tongue. 

“Can you see me?” She turned to focus on the voice that was calling her. 

Roy sighed, shoulders sagging visibly in relief. 

_Truth hadn’t taken away her sight or hearing, then._

But there was a glint in her ochre eyes that was eerily unfamiliar, as Riza looked up to meet his gaze directly. No longer were they like warm sunlight. Instead, it was replaced with a cold, muted gold; a canvas of blankness and nothingness. 

“Who are you?” 

And with those three words, Roy had his answer. His face crumpled as his world crumbled before him. 

_Truth… Truth had taken her memory away._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in for a ride :') so the prologue was deliberately kept short, but I'm estimating this to be around 20-30 chapters? We shall see 😆 Life permitting, I hope to finish this by the end of 2020, and I'm hoping to release a new chapter every 2-3 weeks or so :) 
> 
> Please leave a comment or [say hi on Tumblr (@firewoodfigs)](https://firewoodfigs.tumblr.com) if you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought! Till then, stay safe and take care, and I hope you're all well 💖


	2. Chapter 2

_“Memory takes a lot of poetic license. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart.” - Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie_

**~x~**

“I said, who are you?” Riza asked again, irritation lacing her voice. It was hoarse, scratchy; likely due to weeks of disuse and the still-healing laceration around her neck. 

Swallowing thickly, Roy forced himself to calm down even though his heart felt like it was about to claw its way out of his chest. She needed him to be strong for her, not worsen her anxiety by being a panicked mess himself. For if the roles had been reversed - and he wished it were so that she needn’t suffer like this - she would have certainly done so for him. 

He steeled himself. “I’m -"

“Who… who am I?” she interrupted suddenly, slurring slightly in confusion. Her brows furrowed at the glaring light and the unfamiliar scene around her. 

Roy stared at her blankly in disbelief. For a moment, the only things his mind was capable of forming were incoherent strings of expletives. 

“Your… your name. It’s Riza. And I’m Roy - you… you don’t remember?” He managed to stutter out at last. 

“... No,” Riza verified, much to his dismay. 

“Do you… have any recollection of what happened before this?” 

“... I’m not too sure.” Her scowl deepened, clearly frustrated at her inability to answer any of his questions.

His grip on her hand tightened, almost as though he was clinging on for dear life. God, she… she’d really lost most, if not all of her memories, it seemed. That much was evident from her perplexity at the world around her. Gone was her usual sharp, calculating demeanour: in its place was a confused amnesiac who didn’t even know her own _name._

Damn it! Why her _memory_ , of all things? It was one thing to take away someone’s limbs - at least automail was available as a viable, albeit painful alternative. But it was completely another to erase a person’s recollections of who they were; their identity and sense of self. Hell, even when Truth had taken away Al’s body… Between the two he couldn’t decide which was a worse fate, but at least Al knew who he was after coming out of that wicked Gate. 

Riza didn’t. 

“Bloody hell,” he cursed under his breath. Roy was mad. Terribly, terribly mad. It both baffled and angered him how something that was supposed to represent man’s conscience could be so inhumane and unjust, and he wanted nothing more than to incinerate Truth to ash. 

But perhaps most of all, Roy was the angriest at himself _._ It should’ve been him who paid the toll, not her. He was the one that those bastards were targeting, after all. The people who’d been there as witnesses had tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that there was nothing he could’ve done to stop the transmutation, that it was all Father’s and his lackeys’ wrongdoing… 

They were all probably right, and Roy didn’t believe a word of it. 

Because he should’ve been stronger. Better, faster. She had entrusted him with this power, and he’d made a vow to protect her with it. But he’d failed. Like the impeccable, perfect subordinate she was she had protected him, but he had _failed her._

Lost in thought, he hadn’t even realised the physical effects of his anger until Riza yelped, jolting him out of his reverie. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked hurriedly.

Riza pointed to his right hand that had her bandaged one imprisoned in a vice-like grip. Tears pricked at her eyes involuntarily as the wound threatened to reopen from the force he was exerting on it. “You’re hurting me,” she whispered through gritted teeth. 

Mortified, Roy let go immediately. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to -” but Riza was already backing away from him the moment he released her hand. Her eyes narrowed at him distrustfully, scrutinising his next move. 

Guilt and self-reproach settled in his gut like ice. These days, he was only good for screwing things up, wasn’t he?

“I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he tried once more.

“Who are you, anyway?” Riza ventured to ask again, cradling her injured hand to her heart. To his horror, blood began to seep through the linen bandages. Merciful god, had he inadvertently hurt her in his state of anger? 

“I’ll explain everything later... But can I take a look at your hand first?” He asked softly, approaching her slowly like she was a skittish animal. 

She didn’t budge. Her eyes were still filled with wariness and suspicion, and she was obviously terrified at the prospect of being left alone in a room with a stranger like him. A _stranger._ He supposed that really was what he was now. No longer did he have the unwavering trust that he’d worked so hard, years ago, to earn from the guarded recluse she’d been back then. Back when they were still just Miss Hawkeye and Mister Mustang to each other. 

It was a little like going back to square one all over again. 

And by hurting her, even if unintentionally... He’d only ruined any first impressions she might’ve formed of him in the short span of time she’d been conscious. 

“Please,” he begged. “Your hand is bleeding.” 

She hadn’t even realised it until he pointed it out, apparently. “I - what?” Riza’s eyes widened when they settled on the pool of blood slowly gathering in the white tourniquet. 

Roy gestured to a nurse who happened to be passing by to get a doctor while he slowly reached for her injured hand. Gently, he placed it in his, rubbing small circles on the back of her hand to calm her down. 

Her fingers began to tremble uncontrollably as he loosened the bandages to check the extent to which her wound had reopened, and when his thumb drifted over her pulse he could _feel_ her heart rate picking up. 

“It’s alright,” Roy whispered, though his own pulse was beating at an abnormally quick pace, too. 

Upon closer inspection, he noted that it was a relatively minor wound - compared to what her mind had suffered, anyway. Though it’d reopened slightly it was nothing that couldn’t be remedied by a few stitches. “It’s nothing too bad. Nothing that can’t be easily fixed,” he said, trying to soothe her frazzled nerves. 

The doctor and nurses entered shortly after. Riza withdrew her hand from him immediately to push herself up into a stiff, sitting position when she noticed them, no doubt discomfited by the presence of even more strangers. 

“It’s okay, he just needs to do a quick check.” Roy inched forward to place an open palm on her shoulder in what he thought was a comforting gesture. And when she didn’t flinch, he continued to rest his hand there, before turning her ashen face towards him with his free hand to distract her. 

Riza bit her lip to stifle a whimper. Grimly, he noted that while her memories had been erased, her childhood phobia of doctors and needles (which only amplified tenfold after what her father did) was likely still ingrained in her subconscious. Years of military training had taught her how to school her emotions and fears expertly, of course; compartmentalise them in tightly sealed boxes in her head like she’d done for so many other major afflictions in her life. 

But _she_ wasn’t Lieutenant Hawkeye now. If she couldn’t even remember her own name, then Roy highly doubted that she would have any recollection of her military rank or training at all. No, _she_ reminded him more of the shy, timid girl that he’d met as a teenager in a nondescript, gloomy town; who had been shaking like a leaf when he'd brought her to the doctor’s to fix the gaping wound on her calf. Not that she’d made any mention of her aversion to doctors or needles; but the fear shining in her bright, brown eyes back then had spoken volumes and told him all he needed to know. 

And right now, her eyes were exactly like they’d been back at that awful clinic. 

“I’m right here,” he whispered, hoping it would bring her some form of consolation. He would do what he had done for her back then in a heartbeat, if that's what she needed to feel safe. Roy wasn’t sure if it would work, if she would respond well to his touch, but… he had to try. 

Bending down so that he was at eye level, Roy began to card his fingers gingerly through her flaxen tresses. Thankfully, she made no move to retract from him. In fact, she surprised him by gripping his sleeve with her good hand, although her eyes continued to shift furtively between him and the approaching doctor.

Beside him, a nurse shifted to get the necessary apparatus ready while another held her arm in place to check her vitals. Riza flinched noticeably when she wrapped the cuff around her arm. 

“She’s just going to take your blood pressure, Riza,” he reassured, patting her arm gently as she did so. 

“Blood pressure is normal, although her heart rate is rather high,” she commented, offering Riza a strained smile. 

“I need to take a look, Miss Hawkeye,” the doctor - _Dr. Reed_ , Roy noted upon glancing at the name tag resting on the lapel of his immaculately pressed lab coat - said. 

Hesitantly, she offered her hand to the kind-looking, wizened doctor, keeping her eyes carefully averted from his gray ones. 

Dr. Reed clucked his tongue in disapproval upon examining her wound. “Whoever did this sure did a pretty shoddy job. Not to worry, though - we’ll patch this up real quick.”

Catching sight of her wide and frightened eyes, Roy shifted so that he could be closer to her. Riza’s grip on his sleeve tightened as the implications of his words dawned on her. “W… What… do you mean?” she stuttered nervously, tripping over the words. 

Dr. Reed chose not to respond. Instead, he turned around to prepare a syringe and a vial quietly, away from her line of sight. 

Taking the hint, Roy loosened himself from her grip to place his hands on either side of her face. She trembled in his hold, and he had to force himself to hold her gaze steady despite the anguish sweeping through him. “I’m right here. Just keep your eyes on me, okay?” 

Her breaths became increasingly harsh, ragged when Dr. Reed clasped her wrist securely, turning her palm over to administer the anesthetic while another nurse held her arm firmly in place. 

“I’m here,” Roy repeated once more. 

But his words didn’t reach her. Riza’s eyes glazed over, darkening as if she was trapped in some kind of inescapable trance; like she was reliving some kind of horrific nightmare. And all of a sudden a piercing shriek - one that sounded almost animalistic - echoed through the thin, frigid air as she began to struggle violently against his and the nurse’s hold. 

**~x~**

The last thing she remembered before falling into oblivion were the hands that had been latching onto her to pull her through a… door? At least, she thought it’d resembled a door. The place that lay beyond was… overwhelming, overbearing. It’d made her feel terribly inconsequential, like she was but a small speck of dust in the universe. And nauseous. She vaguely recalled bile coalescing in her throat as she was pulled through… something? 

And then, there was absolutely nothing. Nothing before or after that, except endless tenebrosity. 

Afterwards, she’d woken up to nihility; a blank, white ceiling, and at first she had thought herself dead. But _no_ , she was alive, as she later found out when she saw the strange man beside her, although it felt every bit like she’d been resurrected into another vessel. 

She’d learnt earlier, from the reflective silver of the small kettle near her bed, that she had blonde hair and a pair of brown eyes that reminded her of cinnamon (how did cinnamon taste like again? Was it bitter, sweet or spicy?). 

But this… this was a body she had no recollection of. 

Confused, she’d asked the man who she was. _Riza Hawkeye,_ he said. It felt strange on her tongue, like she was speaking a foreign language, but she was inclined to think he had no reason to lie to her. Because he’d looked completely stumped when she said that she didn’t know her name. Not his, either. 

Had they known each other at some point in their lives, then? He’d implied that she had _forgotten_... something, hadn’t he? 

She tried to pick at her brain for something, anything that could give her a hint of what was going on. But any images that might have flashed beneath her eyes remained ghostly; faded like underdeveloped photos. Goodness, she couldn’t even recall how or why she’d ended up here to begin with. The bed was uncomfortably lumpy beneath her, and there was an awful smell that made her nose wrinkle and her stomach churn. 

The flowers resting by the window ledge, glowing cheerfully under the sunlight were probably the only sliver of comfort in this dreadful place. Were those for her? If so, from who? Did she like flowers? Probably, she guessed, from the mounds of cherry-coloured freesias and scarlet roses piled up there. 

The next time she saw anything red was when the man told her that her hand was bleeding. She hadn’t even noticed until he’d pointed it out, but it _hurt._

More people entered the room then… people she didn’t know. The steady stream of hands reaching out to hold her in place had been terribly disconcerting. It reminded her of the hands that had reached out to haul her through… a gate? A portal? Was that what _they_ had called it? The words couldn’t seem to come to her. Any resistance she might have put up then in that place had been but in vain as every fragment of herself she might’ve once known was dismantled, destroyed. 

She didn’t… she didn’t want to go through that again. She didn’t know what exactly _happened,_ but she had a nagging feeling that it wasn’t… It hadn’t been good, had it? 

_No, it wasn’t,_ came a small voice in her head. It was no louder than a subdued whisper, but it felt like an alarm bell screaming at her to _run_. Something was off, and this was… this was surely bad news. She couldn’t bear to go through that again. 

Panic and anxiety hit her then, like a tidal wave amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces. Her heart began to pulse rapidly in her throat, affrighted by the prospect of sinking into darkness once more. The hands, oh god, those were the worst. The hands that were now restraining her movements… What were they trying to do to her? Where would they bring her to, this time? 

_Not again, not again!_ Her frantic mind scrambled desperately for a way out while she gasped for air, amidst the fear drowning her; the terror and hysteria asphyxiating her chest, and the screams that were escaping her lips almost involuntarily. But she couldn’t seem to, no matter how hard she tried. 

… Had she forgotten how to breathe, too?

**~x~**

“Riza, Riza. Breathe with me, please,” Roy instructed as he tried valiantly to contain her violent thrashing. 

At his behest, the other medical personnel had wisely let go and backed off to give her some space. The nurse that had been trying to hold her in place - probably younger and less experienced - still looked scared, rubbing her arms in an attempt to ease the aftermath of having Riza’s untrimmed nails sink into them like an animal’s claws. 

He breathed steadily, doing his best to stick to a consistent, easy rhythm that she could follow. But the smaller blonde was still clutching at her chest as she hyperventilated; eyes unfocused and unaware of her surroundings. No matter how much he tried to speak to her it seemed like she was still stuck in some kind of otherworldly stupor, and after all his efforts finally proved futile the staff had to bring in a sedative to still her.

Disgusted (and disappointed) with himself, Roy continued to hold her even as she cried out at the uncomfortable sensation. Though she tried to fight against the pull of the calmative, her eyes eventually fluttered shut; movements gradually halting as the sedative brought her back into unconsciousness where pain and panic could no longer reach her. 

Gingerly, he settled Riza back onto the bed before smoothing out her damp, matted fringe. Her bright golden hair had darkened with sweat, as had the hospital gown that hung loosely on her like an ill-fitting hand-me-down. 

“What happened?” Dr. Reed asked as he began to suture her wound. 

Now that she wasn’t struggling like a lunatic anymore, he could work a lot faster. With unnerving ease, he locked each loop of the suture meticulously before glancing at Roy briefly to prompt him for an answer. 

“... Memory loss,” Roy began, keeping his eyes on her unconscious form. 

“How bad?” 

He let out a weary, defeated sigh. “... She couldn’t even remember her own name.”

Dr. Reed remained quiet for a moment as he looped the thread around his fingers deftly to tie off the distal end of the suture closure. Then, when he was done, he looked up at Roy once more, this time with a tinge of pity in his grey eyes, sunken and hollow from the exhaustion of having to tend to an influx of patients over the past few weeks. 

“Retrograde amnesia, probably,” he offered, his tone solemn and sympathetic. “Panic attacks from memory loss are not entirely unheard of, unfortunately.” 

Understandably so, Roy thought. He couldn’t imagine how terrifying it must have been for her to wake up to a world of unknowns and unfamiliar faces. “Is there anything we can do?” he inquired carefully, even though he knew his question was probably rhetorical. From the little he’d gleaned about neurology in the medical books he had studied in the past, much was still unknown about the human brain, and given its complexity it was hardly surprising that there still were no established cures for amnesia.

Briefly, he wondered if it was possible to help Riza regain her memories with a Philosopher's Stone. Perhaps Dr. Marcoh would have an idea or two? He was disinclined to use _that_ once more, but... 

“Not much, sadly. But try not to overwhelm her with too much information at once. It probably won't be beneficial to your… subordinate,” he advised gently. 

_She’s not just a subordinate._ Roy simply nodded, not in the mood for much talking at the moment. 

Fortunately, Dr. Reed got the hint. “I’ll come back later to check on her. Take care, sir,” and with that, they went away, leaving them alone in the room once more. 

**~x~**

It didn’t take long for word to travel that Lieutenant Hawkeye had finally woken up from her coma. A couple of loose-mouthed nurses and a few stubbornly inquisitive friends later, word had gone around like the morning news that _yes, Riza Hawkeye is alive._ And _no, she doesn’t remember any of you._

Rebecca was the first to openly express her displeasure and despair. She was used to wearing her heart on her sleeve, after all, and simply _hearing_ that her closest friend had been reduced to such a state was more than enough to send her into a sobbing mess. Havoc had tried his best to comfort her, but she was inconsolable, and soon enough so was he and everyone else.

But everyone knew, of course, that Mustang was the most affected of them all. He’d been devastated when she had been temporarily assigned to work for a particular man (who was now dead), and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he would have been pulverized by Riza’s current predicament. 

It was Havoc who dared to approach him first to drag him out of the old, rugged chair that had been his residence for the past few nights. The man was probably going to end up accompanying Hawkeye unconscious on a hospital bed if he didn’t get some shuteye soon. “Look, Chief. You haven’t slept properly in _days._ ” Or had it already been weeks? “You should go get some rest - we can keep watch from here. And Breda’s already gone out to look for Dr. Marcoh to see if the Philosopher’s Stone can help.” 

Mustang made no indication that he’d even heard him. 

“Have you even eaten, boss?” Havoc nudged him physically, hoping to elicit some kind of response. 

He managed to get a tired sigh out of him, at least. “I’m not hungry, Havoc.” 

“Bullshit. When was the last time you ate?” 

“I’m not -” Havoc stuffed a sandwich that Fuery had conveniently conjured from a nearby vending machine into his hands. 

“Eat. She’d kill us if we let you starve.” 

He let out a sad, mirthless smile. _If only she remembered, Havoc_. 

Nevertheless, he tried to eat a little, if only to placate the sandy blonde. The sandwich was fresh, piping hot. Under other circumstances he might have enjoyed it; given a snarky remark or two on how the hospital finally improved its food standards, but right now it just tasted like cardboard to him. 

Mustang's eyelids drooped slightly as he ate. He looked like… like crap, to be honest. His skin was an unhealthy shade of pale; the dark circles under his eyes almost bruise-like, as if someone had socked him there with a solid punch, and he hadn’t even bothered to groom himself despite the unsightly, prickly hairs beginning to poke out of his chin. 

“Listen, Chief. You really need _proper_ rest, man. And I don’t mean the occasional nap on that damn creaky chair,” Havoc repeated once more for emphasis.

“I won’t be able to sleep well even if I go back, anyway.” And with a forlorn smile, he returned to Riza’s side, half-eaten sandwich in hand. 

His subordinates sighed as he sank back onto the cursed chair, but he was stuck there like a permanent fixture. A stubborn, immovable mule who would neither budge nor listen to anything they said. Any attempts at convincing him to rest had been completely unsuccessful thus far. And so they ultimately relented, though not without checking from the windows to make sure he hadn’t passed out from starvation or dehydration or exhaustion. 

Once in a while, someone would go in to shove a bottle of water or another steaming sandwich in his hands. To his credit, he did accept them, though he barely acknowledged their presence apart from the occasional stiff nod. 

Time passed like that, in an almost unbearably tense silence, and soon enough night-time descended upon them once more. Much to everyone’s dismay, Mustang was still adamant about staying by her side even when the medical personnel had begun ushering them out. Visiting hours be damned - he’d simply shoved his silver watch in the doctors’ faces and told them to stop harassing him before he snapped. Literally and figuratively.

Finally free from any unnecessary disturbances or distractions, he settled back into the chair, watching her as she slept. Riza’s face was pale under the silver moonlight; a light sheen of sweat beginning to form from what must have been a nightmare. 

Brushing her fringe aside, Roy leaned in to press a chaste kiss onto her forehead. She grimaced a little in her sleep at the uncomfortable feeling of his bristly stubbles, but her breathing began to slow somewhat into a steady, even rhythm. And eventually, she fell back into total unconsciousness again. 

Roy caressed her wounded hand tenderly with his, watching her as she slept peacefully. Her blonde hair was dull and limp; her complexion awfully pallid, her memories robbed by some wretched entity, but she was still the same to him. The same girl he had fallen in love with years ago, when they were just innocent children brimming with naive idealism; the same woman he’d loved even after they were exposed to the vicissitudes of life, tainted by the virulence of war. 

And he vowed to continue doing so for the rest of his life even if she couldn’t remember who he was. 

_I promise, Riza… we’ll figure something out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much @RainFlame for helping me read through this, and to everyone who reviewed last chapter! 💕  
> -  
> So sorry it took awhile for this to be up! Life's been a little busy lately, and I wasn't quite happy with how I wrote this chapter initially. I ended up rewriting it, and all the research ended up taking more time than expected. xD Also, I understand that Hawkeye might appear to be a little ooc here, but losing one's memory is definitely a traumatic experience - even for someone as strong as her. 🥺  
> I'd love to hear your thoughts on this! Leave a comment or [say hi on Tumblr (@firewoodfigs)](https://firewoodfigs.tumblr.com) if you have the time, they definitely motivate me to write faster xD till then, take care and stay safe, everyone! <3


	3. Chapter 3

_“For how can you remember the feel of pain or choking emotion?” -_ _John Steinbeck, East of Eden_

**~x~**

Mustang’s attempts at hopeful optimism were quickly crushed the following morning. 

“Chief,” Havoc whispered, hair matted with sweat and a brown paper bag in one hand smelling faintly of butter and caffeine. 

He didn’t respond. 

“Chief,” he tried again, louder this time as he tapped on his shoulder urgently. 

Mustang jerked awake and cringed at the discomfort his sudden movement brought. “I’m up, I’m up,” he answered, more so to himself than to Havoc; one hand still loosely entwined with Riza’s as she slept soundly. “What’s the matter?” 

“We managed to find Dr. Marcoh.” Retracting his hand, Havoc paused to fiddle with his unlit cigarette like it was a talisman that could protect him from ill-fortune. 

A telltale sign of his distress. 

“... But?” Straightening up a little, Mustang ran a hand through his unkempt hair as he tried to disregard the apprehension sinking in his empty stomach. 

Havoc said nothing as he continued to toy with the cancer-inducing thing. Silence lingered between them, until - 

“What is it, Havoc?” Mustang prompted, irritated with the unnecessary suspense. 

The sandy blonde remained quiet, unsure of how to articulate anything without incurring the wrath of his commanding officer. And then, a string of profuse apologies began to tumble out of his chapped lips as he removed the coffin nail at last. 

“Look… Chief, I’m so sorry. Like, really, _really_ sorry. If I could, I would give up my ability to walk without second thought in exchange for -” 

“Havoc,” he interjected tersely. 

In an attempt to rein in his temper, Mustang forced himself to inhale deeply before saying anything else. Havoc _really_ didn’t deserve to be the target of his frustration. Especially not when he’d been one of his greatest pillars of support since the harrowing events that had followed after the Promised Day. 

“Go on. There’s no need to beat around the bush,” he continued at last, impatience a little less palpable this time. 

“It’s just - shit,” Havoc cussed. “He said… said the Stone’s gone. But it was pretty unexpected, you know. He hadn’t thought that it would’ve just _disappeared_ into thin air.” 

Just like he’d predicted, then. He’d been latching onto a small grain of hope; maybe a miracle of some sort, but he’d also known full well that the Philosopher’s Stone wasn’t infinite. Even something as powerful as that had its limits, and while ire and bleak frustration coursed through his veins like fire… Who was he to say that Marcoh couldn’t have used the Stone on others instead? Who was he to deprive others of their right to recovery? And wouldn’t it have been plain avarice, demanding that it be used for not one, but _two_ of his subordinates? 

When _he_ had been the cause of their suffering in the first place? 

“Chief?” he asked tentatively. 

“Don’t apologise, Havoc,” Mustang said at last. “I’m glad you got your mobility back, at least. Anything beyond that is probably greed.” Slumping dejectedly, he moved to rest his chin on the back of his hand, feeling the stubbles pricking against his skin as he did so. “We’ll… we’ll figure something else out.” 

“Yeah,” he murmured, clenching his right hand into a fist. “How was she yesterday, by the way?” 

“Not great, to be honest. I can’t confirm anything, but she doesn’t seem to react too well to people at the moment.” Incidentally, Mustang’s mind drifted towards her excitable, extroverted friend. No doubt she’d be eager to speak to Riza once she woke up, but he feared that she would end up going overboard with her endless chatter and tactile fawning. (Not that he had been on the receiving end of it, of course, given that her interactions with him mainly consisted of disdainful scoffs and resentful eye-rolls, but he’d certainly seen enough to know that Catalina could be an unstoppable force of nature when she wanted to be.) “And tell Catalina to go easy on Riza, please.”

“Got it. Anyway...” Clearing his throat, Havoc attempted to steer the conversation to something lighter. Anything to distract the distraught man. “Rebecca’s gone out to... run some errands.” Mustang quirked an eyebrow at his use of Catalina’s first name. “And Fuery’s gone to walk the Lieutenant’s dog. Breda and Falman are handling the rest of the stuff - you know, the announcements and what not. Sorting through the preliminary research you need for rebuilding Ishval.” 

“Thanks, Havoc. I really appreciate all of this.”

“Not at all, it’s the least we can do.” He shifted his weight uneasily, brooding for a while. “I’ll give you some time alone.” 

Without sparing any room for protest, Havoc shoved a small box of pastries and a warm cup of coffee into his superior officer’s hands before exiting the room to give him the space he needed. 

Left alone in solitude, Mustang’s mind began to run through the possibilities anxiously, calculating. Now that she’d opened the Gate, wouldn’t she technically be able to perform alchemy even without a transmutation circle, like Fullmetal? And speaking of Fullmetal, hadn’t he gotten back Al’s body by giving up his ability to use alchemy? 

So maybe there _was_ a way for her to get back her memories, after all: she could very well open the damn Portal again and offer her Gate as a sacrifice. Or perhaps _he_ could, in her stead. He didn’t know if the latter would work, given that he hadn’t seen Truth together with her (although he really deserved to) the way Fullmetal did with Al. But the former wasn’t the most palatable option at hand, either. If her contempt towards alchemy was as deeply entrenched in her subconscious as her phobia towards doctors and needles and hospitals... 

It would probably just aggravate her distress or trigger another panic attack.

“Forgive me, Riza,” Roy murmured. “It should be me lying here… not you.” Sighing, he lifted Riza’s hand to his lips to press a tender kiss on her pulse. 

The delicate frown crossing her pallid features hinted that she didn’t take kindly to bristly kisses, however. 

_Damn. I should’ve asked Havoc for a shaver._

**~x~**

Mustang was halfway through a croissant when Dr. Reed came around to check up on his patient. With his coat neatly pressed like it always was and a soft smile fixed on his sunny countenance, the man seemed to be in a relatively chipper mood as he inched towards them. 

“Afternoon, Brigadier General Mustang. Had a good rest?” He gave the chair a pointed look, eyes glinting with a mingled sort of amusement and pity. 

Stuffing the last of the pastry into his mouth, he chuckled dryly before sipping at his coffee. “I’ve had better.” 

“You _really_ should get some proper rest, sir,” he chided. Mustang only shrugged in response. “And what about the patient? How was her night?” 

“Not too bad. She seemed to sleep pretty well, although… There were a few nightmares here and there, I think.” At this, his grip around her hand tightened, though he made a concerted effort _not_ to injure her this time. “Speaking of, how much longer does she have to stay here for?” 

The doctor pursed his lips, hesitating for a moment before diving into lengthy explanation. “To be frank, there’s hardly any reason for her to stay since there’s not much we can do for her. The medical reports made no findings of any sort of brain damage, and her physical wounds would’ve mostly healed by now, too - even the one that I had to patch up yesterday. That said,” he raised a hand to interrupt Mustang, who now looked considerably more hopeful, “I’d strongly advise that she be kept under constant supervision. For starters, we don’t know how well her cognitive faculties are functioning and whether she’s capable of independent living.” Then, with a chary frown, he added, “and there’s also the issue of yesterday’s… well, episode.” 

_Episode._ Mustang didn’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed at his tact. Or maybe it was the cumulative lack of sleep messing with his emotions. He seemed to have an exceptionally short fuse today, didn’t he? 

In a somewhat uncharacteristic display of self-control, gratitude made itself known in place of anger. “Thank you for letting me know,” he said, a little less curtly than he’d expected. 

“Not at all, sir. Well, I’d better check her injuries before she regains consciousness. If you don’t mind?” 

Careful to not disturb her peaceful slumber, Mustang propped her head up gingerly to assist the doctor as he unravelled the linen bandages winding around her neck. At the gentle touch, she made a small sound at the back of her throat, but otherwise remained unroused from her sleep. 

“So, does she have any family members available to supervise her?” Dr. Reed asked casually, running a slender thumb across the column of her throat once the bandages were removed. To his everlasting relief, the injured area was now a healing, healthier shade of pink, save for the stitches that still remained. 

“... Not really.” There was Grumman, of course, but that particular piece of information wasn’t public knowledge, and there was no need to shove her already agitated being into the spotlight by drawing attention to their relationship. Not to mention the gossip that her residence in the Fuhrer’s estate would invite. First a direct assistant to the late Fuhrer, and now the incumbent’s relative? 

Mustang could already _hear_ the vile allegations of nepotism spreading like wildfire across the military. 

“That makes things a little harder, then. Do you know anyone else who could watch over her?” Dr. Reed moved to address the dressings around her palm next, nodding approvingly when he observed the same symptoms of recovery. 

“... Yeah,” he answered vaguely, failing to see the look that the good doctor was giving him. He doubted she’d be rejoicing over moving in with a _stranger_ , even if it was just an interim measure (not that he’d ever mind if she decided to stay with him long-term), but surely that option was preferable to sticking around here. Riza needed somewhere that didn’t have the effect of rattling her deepest fears. Somewhere that didn’t reek of antiseptic and medicine and death. 

The question was, would she mind? 

The crumpled bed sheets rustled like paper then as Riza stirred, breaking the contemplative hush that had fallen upon the two men. Working with fastidious efficiency, Dr. Reed rewrapped her palms with a fresh set of linen before backing away to give his patient some space. 

“She’s coming to, it seems,” he whispered. Taking the hint, Mustang reclined in his seat as well, watching apprehensively as her eyelids twitched. 

**~x~**

Waking up once more turned out to be a lot harder than expected. Consciousness returned to her in bits and pieces, as if it was unwilling to extricate her from whatever had dragged (drugged?) her under. Her earliest recollection was the distasteful smell of antiseptics; the disgustingly pale, peeling walls, and the ghost-white ceiling above her. All of which, when combined, bore a strange resemblance to some sort of paranormal void. Then there were some vague blobs of bright vermillion here and there, too: freesias, roses, and…

And _blood_?

Her mind rolled in a painful mist; thoughts rattling as she attempted to recall the subsequent blur of events. Dimly, she recalled the distinctive baritone of a man saying something to her. His exact words refused to make themselves known in her half-sedated mind, but his tone had been rather soothing, hadn’t it? 

Almost as though he’d been coaxing a lost, helpless child. 

_Lost, helpless…_

Heart pounding thunderously in her ears, Riza pushed herself up as her eyes fluttered open in fear, wincing as she did so. Her back was uncomfortably sore from weeks of immobility, and her hands ached, still tender from the injuries sustained. And despite the repose she’d gotten, she still felt rather faint; like she’d hardly slept at all. 

“Slowly,” said the man ( _Roy,_ she remembered, mildly relieved at her capacity to retain new information) as he helped ease her into a sitting position. Though his hands were gentle, warm, they reminded her of the swarm of hands that had restrained her; the phantom hands that’d haunted her in some kind of preternatural space, in her sleep and in her consciousness… 

And she could barely differentiate between the two.

Riza flinched.

Now that the drugs were starting to wear off, awareness replaced haziness, and triggered memories began pouring back into her mind. Memories of a cold, nameless panic freezing her blood and her breath. Her breath.

She couldn’t breathe. 

“Riza.” 

Her lungs hitched, trying to draw a strangled breath as her eyes snapped to Roy. 

He wasn’t touching her anymore. Instead, he had both hands up, the universal gesture of surrender, but he was still too close for comfort. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, nervously close and gentle as her grip tightened around the scraggly, threadbare blanket sprawled across her legs. 

“Y-yes,” she managed to croak, keeping her eyes lowered as she picked at the loose threads morosely. 

Had that been a panic attack or… or something, like the one she’d experienced earlier while awake? Was that the correct term for it? And had she always been like this, so terribly inept at controlling her emotions? 

Ashamed and confused, Riza crossed her arms defensively over her chest, as if doing so could somehow maintain whatever was left of her dignity and pride. God, she hated this. She hated being so unsure of _everything_. She hated being unable to discern between reality and falsity; distinguish realism from her own delusions. All that was left of her now was this hollow receptacle of a person so easily reduced to a quivering mess. 

… How pathetic. 

“You’re okay, Riza. Hopefully we can get you out of here soon,” he whispered. 

At this, Riza turned to look up once more, although humiliation ensured that she took great care to avoid eye contact. Shifting her attention to her surroundings instead, she saw the same silvery kettle resting on the table, reflecting her sunken, hollow cheekbones; the watery smile plastered on the man’s weary visage, the ironed ends of a white, pristine coat that would’ve blended into the background if not for the black slacks lodged in between. 

The doctor was back, it seemed. 

Riza swallowed nervously. “Wha-what are you here for?” she ventured to ask, voice still cracking as though she’d just run across a desert. 

“Here, have some water,” Roy fussed, filling a paper cup before passing it to her. She drank eagerly, much to the delight of her parched throat. 

“I just need to run some quick tests,” the doctor replied. Instinctively, she stiffened in fear, and he hastened to add, “Nothing of that sort. I’m just going to ask some questions, and you don’t have to feel pressured if you can’t answer them. Is that alright?” 

Riza managed a small nod before shrinking further into herself, and - what was that _thing_ tugging at her _foot_? 

Curious, her eyes followed the trail of translucent wires that started from somewhere above her head and ended at her toes, which were obscured by the thin layer of cloth. And as she pulled up the blanket to expose her feet, the catheter jutting out of her ankle finally made its unwelcome presence known. 

_An intravenous drip... Wait, how do I know this? Usually, the needle is inserted into the patient’s arm, isn’t it?_

Dread swelled in her heart as she squeezed her eyes shut. 

_Please… No more…_

A helpless girl whimpering, sobbing. Struggling in vain, begging for mercy...

_Please stop..._

_Riza._

She wasn’t quite sure if she was imagining things again. Whether the gentle voice belonged to another hallucination. 

_Riza._

But the voice seemed more urgent, more desperate this time. Then there was the sensation of callused fingers running through her hair gingerly - 

She gasped and opened her eyes, staring straight into a pool of obsidian. “There’s nothing to be scared of, alright? It won’t be there for much longer,” he soothed, holding her gaze steady as he continued to stroke her hair. 

Gradually, her fear began to ebb away, like waves receding back into sea, but it left a marked trail of embarrassment in its wake as it did so. 

“O-okay,” she stuttered, averting her eyes from his. 

“Alright, Miss Hawkeye,” the doctor prompted. For some reason, his mode of address stirred an inexplicable feeling within her. “How are you feeling?” 

“Fine.” No need to mention the mild headache she was experiencing. 

“Do you remember what happened before you were hospitalised?” 

“Not really, no,” she answered, frowning. Was this some kind of sick joke? “Can you just... remove the IV, please?” 

“Alright,” he relented, moving over to the foot of the bed to do so. Grimacing at the weird sensation, Riza squeezed her eyes shut again, forcing herself to listen intently to the soothing murmurs to anchor herself to reality.

Soon enough, he was done. “Alright, that’s out of the way now, Miss Hawkeye,” he reassured. And when she opened her eyes again, she was relieved to find that the offensive object was indeed gone. 

“So can I go yet?” 

“You may, Miss Hawkeye, but it’d be better if someone was around to keep an eye on you, just in case anything happened,” the doctor said. 

His tone made it clear that he would brook no disagreements. 

“I don’t really… know anyone.” Riza mulled over his offer, trying to see if there was anyone willing to do so for her. Did she have any family, relatives, friends? “My parents?” she offered tentatively, wondering why the question sounded so distastefully strange rolling off her tongue. 

“They… haven’t been around for some time, Riza,” Roy reminded her gently after a tense moment of silence. 

… No wonder the question was odd, even to her ears. Somehow the blow hit less harshly than expected, as if she’d already known that her question was rhetorical. 

“But I’d be more than willing to do that,” Roy offered, still well within her personal space. When she failed to respond for a long while, he added, “Although if you’d prefer… you could stay here for a while longer, too. I can stay here with you, if that makes you more -”

“I - you - is this - is this some kind of _threat_?” Riza interrupted, bewildered. _Of course_ anything was better than staying here, where any medical staff had the liberty of poking and prodding her and violating her bodily integrity with whatever medical instruments and drugs they had in their arsenal. But he’d basically cornered her into acceding to his offer, didn’t he? And _-_ something told her this next bit was an important consideration - was it really safer staying with a man whom she hardly knew? 

In fact, hadn't he been responsible for her dehiscence? 

“No, no, of course not!” Roy exclaimed. “I just… whatever makes you more comfortable. I- If you’d like, I’m sure we can file a request for a nurse to stay with you too, or something else,” he rambled on anxiously. 

_No!_ She nearly protested aloud. _That_ was even worse. Already, the thought of any medical staff even coming near her terrified her, and the idea of them invading her privacy was enough to make her queasy, much less staying with her in her apartment. Assuming she had one. 

Riza hoped she did, at least. 

“Why does it matter to you, anyway? Who am I to you?” she asked, accusation quaking in her feeble voice. In truth, she still didn’t trust him, even if he did appear to be rather invested in her well-being. Because while he’d been nothing but kind so far in the few hours she’d interacted with him, he _had_ wounded her. To be fair, he’d looked mortified, and had made it seem like it was all unintentional, but… 

One could never be too sure if it was all just subterfuge. 

The man remained quiet, as if he was fumbling around for some kind of plausible explanation, until - “I think he definitely cares for you a great deal, Miss Hawkeye,” the doctor supplied gently. “You’ve been out for quite some time, but believe me when I say he hasn’t left your side since. None of us here have been able to convince him to do so, in fact.” 

_Hasn’t left your side since._ The thought of him staying by her bedside alone for an extended period of time was enough to send her flushing scarlet. In her state of embarrassed fluster, Riza could only manage to give a curt nod. 

“Well, that’s settled, then.” The doctor gave her a cheery, sympathetic smile, and though she had the sudden urge for remonstrance something told her that it would be a most futile endeavour. “I’ll just have to settle some more administrative matters with Bri - this young man here, and you’ll be well on your way.” 

“I’ll be back soon,” Roy whispered. 

“Fine,” she whispered, subdued. And as they turned to leave, Riza slumped against the headboard with resigned docility, praying fervently that she’d made the right choice. 

**~x~**

“Thanks for earlier, Dr. Reed,” Mustang said once they were safely out of earshot. He hadn’t been all too keen on telling Riza that he was her _superior officer_ , which would’ve likely only segued into a completely unhelpful discussion about her position in the military. Possibly even her participation in a coup d'état, a genocidal extermination… 

Like the doctor said, no need to overwhelm her with unnecessary information. 

“Not at all,” he shrugged, though his cheerful demeanour seemed to darken as they travelled down the spotless corridors reeking of bleach and antiseptic and disinfectant. “Lost my son in the war, after all. I can’t imagine the hell that you and your subordinate must have endured.” 

Mustang tensed. Clearly, his anguish hadn’t abated in the least despite the time that had lapsed since the war… he could empathise. “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“It’s okay,” he waved a hand dismissively. “I know you’ve mentioned that you intend to revise the policies on Ishval, Brigadier General Mustang. I can only hope everything goes according to plan, and that my wife’s hopes of peace and restoration will finally come to fruition.” Catching sight of the petite nurse shuffling past them, he coughed and quickly changed the subject. “Anyway. Her cognitive faculties seem to be working fine. It’s a relief that her memory loss seems to be mostly isolated, at least.” 

Mustang nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly. At this point he’d take whatever silver lining was there. 

“Although… you should definitely keep an eye out for her, especially for her emotional state,” Dr. Reed instructed. “Not that I know her personally, but my intuition tells me that there have been some alterations to her personality?” 

“An intelligent guess,” he smiled wryly. “How did you tell, then?” 

“There were a lot of complaints from my son, again, about having to suppress any kind of emotion during his time in the military.” Grief contorted his features for a moment, before he schooled his expression and went back to placid professionalism. “Personality changes are common with amnesia, too. And confabulations - I’m guessing you know her quite well, but she might experience some errors in memory. You’ll probably have to assist her in that regard,” Dr. Reed continued. 

“I will.” Mustang’s expression was solemnly downcast when they arrived at the administrative counter, still trying to process all the information and all the events that had transpired thus far. 

With an efficiency comparable to Hawkeye’s, Dr. Reed gathered the necessary discharge papers and a pen from the counter. “If I could have her direct superior’s signature?” 

The pen ran across the dotted line with zeal. “Thanks for all your help, Dr. Reed. If I could just ask for one more favour -” 

“To keep this arrangement confidential? Of course. And no need to ask me how I read your mind, I’m an old friend of grumpy old Knox,” he chipped in, to Mustang’s immense gratitude and relief. “Alright, that’s out of the way now. Go do what you’ve got to do.” 

**~x~**

By the time he’d collected all the other necessities (the half-asleep pharmacist at the counter had perked up upon noticing that it was _the_ Flame Alchemist standing before her, and had helpfully supplied him with extra bandages and a whole assortment of painkillers and calmatives and sleeping pills) and called Havoc to inform him of her discharge, it was almost late afternoon. Completely enervated, Mustang had gone to get another caffeine fix from the nearby vending machine and stopped by the men’s to wash his face, scratching at his facial hair. Afterwards, he'd headed back to Riza’s room and was mildly surprised to see her already out of bed. 

“I’m back,” he called softly, not wanting to scare her as she fingered a wilting rose by the window ledge.

Riza took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded. Exhaustion had made her somewhat resigned, although the way she rubbed her arms every now and then revealed the fear and anxiety brewing underneath. 

Shrugging his coat off, Roy crossed the distance between them in two quick strides to offer it to her. “You look cold,” he said gently. He needed an excuse to draw closer to her; provide some kind of comfort despite her evident lack of trust towards him, and that had been the most accessible excuse around. 

“I’m fine,” Riza declined, still staring blankly at the heap of flowers as she let out a near-imperceptible shiver. Her limp hair fell way past her shoulders, shrouding her eyes from his like a curtain. Had the circumstances been different, Roy might’ve chuckled at her stubbornness or tucked the loose strands behind her ear so that he could see her face properly. 

He doubted she would respond well to that, though. And so he moved to wrap his coat around her with careful tenderness instead, almost like she was made of glass. 

“Thanks,” she mumbled, a hint of pink beginning to suffuse her cheeks - which, in his opinion, were still far too pale to be healthy. 

“Shall we go, Lieu - Riza?” Roy cursed himself mentally for almost slipping up. Damn it, he’d gotten so used to that particular request that her title had nearly come out by way of habit. 

Sighing, she nodded and turned around weakly, trembling as she did so to reach for her little stash of things. Which, in line with her usual self, had all been neatly packed into the bag that she’d found in her bedside drawer. 

Some things didn’t change, he supposed. 

“Let me do it,” said Roy, who was already reaching to gather them in his arms as he let her withered frame rest on him for support. 

Too tired to object and probably still recovering from the aftereffects of a medically-induced sleep (or maybe she was just glad to get out of this hellhole), Riza relented, allowing him to manoeuvre her out of the cramped room that she’d been trapped in for the past few weeks towards her first breath of fresh air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much @RainFlame for helping me read through this and for your invaluable feedback, and to you who's reading! 💕  
> -  
> Again, so sorry this took awhile to be up. The past couple of weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind - my country had its general elections, my wardrobe failed on me and I had to get a new one (as well as do some major Marie Kondo-ing because my room is a terrible mess), and my preparatory course for the bar officially begins next week. Life permitting, I hope to update this maybe once a week or two? But we'll see how everything goes 😆 I hope you guys have been well, though!
> 
> And of course, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this! I tried to write more from Riza's POV this chapter, but I'm not sure how that turned out (feedback and concrit are welcome!) Leave a comment or [say hi on Tumblr (@firewoodfigs)](https://firewoodfigs.tumblr.com) if you have the time; they absolutely make my day :) till then, take care and stay safe, everyone! 💙


	4. Chapter 4

_“How can I go, meeting and exorcising my own ghosts here! I've made some new ones now.”_ _―_ _Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath_

**~x~**

The outside world was bustling with activity. 

Children giggled as they chased each other around merrily, bypassing lovers and friends huddled together for warmth under scarves and shawls. Across the road, families enjoyed a hearty, communal stew together under strings of colored lights; parents gazing upon their own with the kind of adoration that bordered on adulation (at this, Riza was suddenly overcome with some undefinable emotion akin to jealousy). 

Trying to abate her anxiety at the surrounding crowd, Riza sought to focus on something else instead, and in her observation learnt that it wasn’t all fun and laughter around. Down the cobblestoned street lay a quaint shophouse that housed a small family, with skin the colour of sun-burned sand and gossamer-like hair. Men and women alike crooned along to a sad, lonely tune by a fireplace ignited by lamentations and ruminations; eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. A microcosm of seemingly incurable grief. And yet, as children are prone to irrepressible joy they eventually scurried out one by one into the vibrant sunset, eager to partake in the cheer of spring.

Riza winced when a boy nearly knocked her over in his haste, only to stare in stunned silence when she met his eyes. 

A pair of bright, scarlet rubies. 

_Red._

_The colour of roses, freesias._

_Fire and rubies._

_Blood._

“Oops, sorry, Miss!” The child flashed a toothy grin at her as he regained his balance. Hands folded behind his back, he peered up at her curiously. “Sorry… Are you okay?” 

“She is,” Roy replied with an equally charming grin, jolting her out of her reverie. “And you?” 

“I am!” He puffed out his chest proudly, undeterred by the fact that he would’ve crashed face-first into the ground if not for their timely obstruction. “I’m gonna run along now! Bye!” 

And with a jaunty little wave, he turned to chase after his friends who’d gone ahead. 

“You alright?” Roy asked, his expression inscrutable. 

She nodded. Strange. _He_ seemed more shaken by the incident than _she_ did, if the way he was trying to regulate his breathing was any indication.

“Alright,” he said at last, steering her towards the direction of a shiny, black car. “Shall we go, then? We can get something to eat before heading back, if you’re hungry.”

“I’m not -” she began to protest, but she was interrupted by a faint rumbling that distinctly belonged to _her._

Riza flushed scarlet, chagrined. 

He didn't comment on it, though. The only response she received was an understanding smile without any hint of ridicule. “I’m sure you’re tired, too. We can just grab a quick bite, okay?” Walking ahead of her, Roy reached out to unlock the door before extending an arm to gently usher her in. “After you.” 

Taking the cue, Riza got onto the passenger seat quickly, still self-conscious. Her hands throbbed as she fastened her seatbelt. Notwithstanding the pain, she’d been prepared to close the door herself, but his quick reflexes beat her to it. 

Seconds later, Roy appeared beside her, one hand on the steering wheel as he raised a finger to his chin, thinking. 

He was decent-looking, she supposed. Slightly better than the average man she’d seen earlier on the streets. His skin was pale and smooth, save for the unkempt stubbles sprouting around his mouth like grass unmowed; features soft and kind, although she still had her reservations as to whether his compassion was truly genuine _._ But the sunlight seeping through the windows accentuated his eye bags rather unflatteringly - which were so deep, they could’ve easily passed for actual bruises instead of dark circles.

Briefly, Riza found herself wondering when was the last time he’d gotten a proper rest… and the doctor’s words suddenly chose to resurface in her mind. 

“Where are we going?” she asked, steering her mind towards something else. The thought of eating with a crowd made her stomach churn, and not because of hunger. 

“I thought we could go somewhere quiet. There’s a little place down the suburbs not too far from here, and it’s usually not crowded around this time,” he explained, inserting and twisting the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life. “Is that okay?” 

“Okay.” Riza hoped his prediction was accurate, at least. The less people, the better. 

At her assent, he stepped on the pedal and set the car moving. 

Street lights faded into starburst as he drove, glimmering past in blurry streaks of gold and white. Smaller, shorter buildings soon replaced the taller ones; some rundown, others recently refurbished. It was easy to tell which one fell in the latter from the fresh, damp streaks of paint running across neatly stacked bricks. And eventually, the crowd subsided along with the final vestiges of sunlight. 

Lulled by the soporific depths of the vast, starless expanse overhead, Riza began to drift in and out of consciousness; her grogginess worsened by the car’s movements. 

**~x~**

“We’re here, Riza,” Roy whispered. She stirred a little, blinking owlishly. “Riza…” 

“I’m awake,” she murmured, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with a bandaged hand. At some point when she’d been stifling her yawns, the engine had gone quiet, and Roy had ended up opening the door for her once more. 

Riza shivered at the cold wind that suddenly hit them and moved to tighten her - no, _his_ coat around herself. Inhaling deeply, she managed to detect a subtle trace of something masculine. Cologne, probably. But it also smelt a little off, unpleasant; like it’d gone unwashed for weeks. 

Either way, she wasn’t going to complain about the only source of warmth available now that the heater had shut off, although she couldn’t help but wonder if she was depriving him of _his._

Roy appeared unfazed by the cold, though. His ungloved hands remained firm; not trembling in the least even as he carded his fingers through his disheveled hair. 

“Shall we go?” 

Pretending she hadn’t noticed his outstretched hand, Riza stepped out and followed him wordlessly - two steps apart, so that he wouldn’t be too close for comfort. 

The restaurant was a candlelit nook in a restored brick building. Nearby, there were a couple of bars flanked by dark, narrow alleys, littered with abandoned beer bottles and unwanted flyers and crushed cigarettes. But true to his word, it _was_ empty. And while the bleak atmosphere outside might have unsettled her, the aroma of freshly baked bread that had assailed her nostrils upon entering was immensely comforting. 

Roy glanced cursorily at the menu before handing it to her. “Anything you’d like in particular?” 

“Cinnamon?” she whispered, recalling the color of her eyes that she’d seen lingering on the kettle’s smooth surface. Apart from that, Riza wasn’t quite sure what her preferences for food were. 

“Sure,” he chuckled lightly, approving. “They serve some pretty good cinnamon rolls here, if I do say so myself.” 

Once he’d turned their orders in, a young waiter promptly ushered them towards a table before serving two cups of hot tea. Grateful to have a reprieve from the biting cold, Riza chafed her fingers against the warm ceramic, listening quietly to the music coming from the jukebox. It was a song about unrequited love. The man’s bright tenor darkened with melancholy as he sang, and Riza wondered if she’d ever experienced something like that. 

Across her, Roy added a heaping spoonful of sugar to his own steaming mug of tea, humming along as he did so. Riza was surprised to find that he had a rather nice voice, although he tended to go off-tune every now and then. And as he sipped at the warm beverage, a distant look began to fill his eyes; like he was reminiscing about something bittersweet. Something that was now history. 

_Nostalgia_ \- was that the correct term for it? 

_A longing for something from the past._

… Had he ever been in love, then? Riza didn’t dare ask. The question was a little too intrusive for her liking, and she was also oddly discomfited by the fact that she couldn’t have possibly felt nostalgic about anything from her past, now. 

For how could she possibly miss something she didn’t know?

So she swallowed her questions down along with her tea instead, content to avoid meaningless small talk. A vaguely floral aftertaste complemented the black tea. Eglantine, perhaps? 

Interesting.

Their food arrived shortly after just as the song switched. Something about hungry hearts, or so she surmised from the chorus. Riza made no mention of the dull ache in her hands as she reached for a bun that was generously drizzled with cinnamon and a white, gooey glaze. 

The first bite was preceded by anticipation and apprehension. Much to her delight, though, it was… _sweet._ Irresistibly so, in fact. 

She ended up popping another one into her mouth while Roy was already on his fourth.

Pushing the plate towards her, he smiled encouragingly. “The rest is yours. I’ve had my fill.” 

Riza obliged and cleared the rest, washing the sweetness away with the remainder of her tea. When that was done, she decided it was now or never. “Um, do you know where I live? If I live with anyone?” she asked, shifting awkwardly in her seat. 

Goodness, it felt like she was out on a first date with _herself._

Blanching visibly, he bit on his lip as he fiddled with his now-empty mug of tea. Riza cocked her head to one side as she traced the rim of the porcelain plate, waiting. 

“You have a dog,” Roy supplied gently after a while. 

“ _What?_ ” Not that she minded the idea, but what kind of pet owner was she if she couldn’t even remember that she had one?

“Yeah,” Roy confirmed. A strained smile tugged at his lips, now speckled with bits of cinnamon and sugary icing. “A Shiba Inu. Black Hayate. He’s very well-trained, don’t worry.” 

“That’s his name?” Riza frowned, a little taken aback at her poor naming sense. A _hurricane_ , of all things. 

Perhaps creativity wasn’t one of her strongest traits. 

“It is. You chose it.” His tone was gentle still, but there was a hint of amusement within as his smile widened into a grin. 

… Was he _teasing_ her? 

“Well, what about my first question?”

“Oh. About that…” He hesitated, the grin now gone. “I thought it might be better if we stopped by your place to pick up some things first before coming to mine.” 

Riza frowned. “ _Your_ house? Why?” she said, incredulous. 

“I mean, I could stay with you at your apartment too, if you prefer,” he ploughed on. “It’s just that your house is a little… Well. It’s a little bare at the moment, I’d say.” Wait, how did he know that? Riza couldn’t help but grimace, curious about the state of her apartment. She hoped it wasn’t too bad. “But like I said, whatever makes you comfortable. How about we stop by your place first, and you can decide from there?” 

He was willing to give her a choice, at least. Or, well, a semblance of it, since she was _still_ stuck with him. And he hadn’t done anything malicious so far either, not since they’d left the infirmary...

“Fine,” Riza relented at last. She wasn’t exactly turning cartwheels at the entire arrangement, but anything was preferable to staying in that dreadful place. 

With one last reassuring smile, Roy stood and went to the counter to settle the tab. 

**~x~**

Much to her dismay, her apartment was indeed _bare,_ just like he said.

Boxes were strewn everywhere: some sealed, others half-opened. There were hardly any signs of inhabitation around, save for a ceramic mug beside an empty canister redolent of tea and stale biscuits by the sink. A lone incandescent bulb hung precariously from the ceiling, filling the room with a dim yellow light when she flicked the switch upwards. 

Now illuminated, shadows followed them around as they entered, elongating with every step they took. For some reason, Riza couldn’t quite shake off the shivers running down her spine. She tried to convince herself that this was perfectly normal; ordinary science at work. That it was just an irrational fear. 

_Breathe._

But any sense of logical comfort flew out of the window as soon as they came in front of the telephone. Her throat started to tighten as panic descended upon her once more, _strangling_ her. Riza gasped for air; lungs burning as her heart pounded. It was suffocating. No amount of swallowing could loosen its chokehold or suppress the bile rising. Whatever she’d managed to ingest earlier felt like it was incapable of staying, and the dizzying combination of nausea and oxygen deprivation made standing upright near impossible. 

Searching for support, Riza clung to the edge of the table, feeling the cool wood graze against her palm. _Breathe,_ she tried to chant in her head, like it was a prayer for salvation. 

It didn’t work. The only thing loosening was her clammy grip on the table. 

“Hey,” Roy called. He made no move to touch her, although his hands were hovering around, tentative and nervous. “What’s wrong?” 

The panic only grew, sweeping across her like a deluge. Desperate for an anchor, Riza moved to grip his sleeve instead. “Gi-give me a moment,” she choked, insides fluttering wildly. 

Roy hesitated for a fleeting moment before moving to settle his hand on the small of her back. She tensed, but otherwise made no move to withdraw from his touch as he gently guided her towards the chair. 

Struggling to regain control of herself, Riza sank into the seat; heaving as she swiped at her eyes with impatience. 

“It’s okay,” Roy soothed. “Take it easy. I-is there anything I can do to help?” 

She shook her head. What could he possibly do? Breathing was still a remarkable challenge. Her heart had made her still-constricted throat its abode; and despite his kindness, she could only see pity for her misery. Because she’d been scared by something as silly as their shadows, for heavens’ sake. And a _telephone,_ of all things! 

The logical part of her had tried to reason that they weren’t even capable of causing any kind of tangible harm, but it’d still been enough to dissolve her into a complete wreck devoid of any common sense. 

How was this any way to live? And how pathetic must she have seemed, torn to quivering fragments by emotion and irrationality? 

Ashamed of her weakness, Riza curled into herself, resting her forehead on her clenched fists. 

“Riza.” His voice was no louder than a whisper this time as he knelt before her. Slowly, as though afraid that she would reject him, Roy reached out to clasp her unsteady hands with his. “Just breathe, Riza. I won’t let anything happen to you.” 

Roy continued to kneel in front of her patiently, talking gibberish to distract her. Something about how the emptiness of her apartment did nothing to lessen its gloominess and how he’d eventually decorate it with a whole bunch of her favourite flowers if she so wished, amongst other things; punctuating his ramblings with reminders to _breathe, yes - just like that, Riza, you’re doing good._

And eventually, the tremors that had been wracking her like an earthquake _did_ subside. “So-sorry,” she stuttered at last, humiliation returning with a sickening vengeance once more. God, he’d probably seen enough meltdowns for today to last him three lifetimes.

“Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said firmly. There was a faint shuffling as he rose from the floor. Glancing up at him, Riza could see the unspoken questions written all across his worried expression; almost hear the gears clicking in his brain as he tried to assess and evaluate the situation. “... What happened?” 

“I… I don’t know,” and that was the miserable half-truth. She knew it’d been the shadows, the phone (although she was loath to admit this aloud), but she couldn’t fathom _why._

Silence stretched across them. The night moved restlessly about the dismal apartment, nudging them and urging them towards a distraction. A decision. 

“Would you prefer to stay at my place, instead?” Roy asked, breaking the unbearable silence at last. And when Riza looked up at him, eyes glistening with what remained of her choked sobs and a muted, agitated plea he knew that her answer was in the affirmative. 

**~x~**

The visceral memory of her expression haunted Mustang as he drove. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her like that: tears in her eyes,, beads of sweat standing out on her pale face as she hyperventilated. And to make things worse, he now had no way of knowing _why_ she’d reacted that way, although he had a nagging suspicion that it was something to do with Bradley or one of his lackeys. 

Damn it. 

Or, actually, maybe it was _his_ fault for involving her in something as dangerous as overthrowing a government to begin with. But he’d sort out his own tangled emotions of guilt and blame later. 

Riza was his main priority. 

As he glanced sideways at her, he could easily make out her self-reproach and frustration from the way her jaw remained tightly clenched: a habit of hers whenever she struggled to master some strong emotion, or whenever she was creating a mental catalogue of all the ways she’d slipped up. Trust her to berate herself over something she had no control over, really (although he supposed it wasn’t all that surprising, considering how _hard_ she’d always been on herself). He longed to stroke a hand over hers, or to place an arm around her still-shaking shoulders, _something_ ; but he also knew that he’d only make things worse if he tried to touch her at the moment. 

And so Mustang drove without any prodding or prompting. The only sounds in the car came from the radio that Fuery had kindly installed a few weeks ago for him ( _it’s good for unwinding after a long day at work, sir,_ he’d insisted. Mustang had gathered that his subordinates had probably come together to find some way to pacify his tetchiness after what happened to Riza, but he was grateful nonetheless). 

Gradually, Riza’s shoulders began to relax as she listened to the soothing ballad, even if only by a fraction. Roy smiled. 

Maybe it _was_ good for unwinding, after all. 

Afterwards, he’d brought her up to his apartment and turned the heater on so that she could take a bath. She hadn’t argued very hard when he’d offered her to have the first shower, in part because he knew she’d been looking forward to scrubbing the aseptic stench off her skin ever since they stepped out of the hospital. Roy had handed her a white button-down of his that he’d found in her wardrobe, along with a pair of blue pants and a clean towel, before guiding her gently towards his bathroom. 

The sound of running water filled his apartment. And then, it dawned upon him that there was a problem. 

The tattoo.

The burn scars on her back.

_Shit._

Pacing around frantically, Mustang began to wrack his brains for a solution. He couldn’t very well interrupt her shower for no apparent reason, and he most certainly did not want to barge in and cause her to think that she was living with a voyeur. The few times he’d seen her naked back was for the precise reason that was causing his hair to grey prematurely at the moment. Even then, that’d been solely by her own volition, and - well, he wouldn’t dream of it being otherwise, despite his occasional teasing and flirting. 

So was there anything he could do at this point that wouldn’t ruin whatever little progress they’d made? Probably not. 

Sighing, Roy turned around to prepare the guest room for her instead. 

Despite his… _singlehood_ (although the unobservant; the jealous and spiteful had often thrown this into question by labelling him as an unrepentant flirt, a womanizing pig, and at one point, a _harlot_ ), Mustang’s house was a relatively spacious two-room apartment which was surprisingly neat, unlike the disagreeable state of his office desk. Mainly because he didn’t have a lot of things to begin with, since the neverending piles of paperwork meant that he hardly had time for frivolities like shopping. And while the room had been originally intended to be a personal study, his sisters had taken the liberty of transforming it into a fully-equipped bedroom for their occasional girls’ nights and whatnots. 

Which, he supposed, turned out to be very helpful for a time like this. 

Fluffing pillows and sweeping dust, Mustang briefly contemplated the consequences of deconstructing his bathroom mirror, before deciding that it’d only raise suspicion. There was no point dwelling on it further for now. He’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Until then, he was content to simply ensure that she had a good night’s rest and avoid any misconceptions that he was some sort of lewd degenerate who would take advantage of a still-recovering woman under his care. 

He’d only just finished packing her things into the drawer when a loud rapping interrupted his musings. Mustang rushed to open the door, and there stood Catalina outside his apartment alone - oh, wait. Hayate was with her, too. 

“Evening, Catalina. To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

“I’m here for Riza, of course. Not _you,_ ” she grumbled, rolling her eyes - which were still slightly red-rimmed and swollen, he noted. “How is she?” Hayate yipped excitedly and dashed inside as soon as he saw his master exit the bathroom. 

Now enveloped in a warm, soap-scented cloud and her usual sleepwear, Riza looked a lot more at ease than she did back at the hospital. Confusion crossed her features as the pup capered around her feet, eager for attention and affection. 

“That’s Black Hayate, Riza,” Roy prompted gently. And then, for the first time that night, her thin, chapped lips twitched upwards into a genuine smile as she bent down to stroke his fuzzy head, delighted by the warmth it brought. It had the effect of turning his own lips upward, too; dulling the turmoil within, the worry and guilt that had been gnawing at him since her ordeal. 

“Aww,” Rebecca cooed, breaking the spell that had fallen over them. “He’s really missed you, you know.” 

Riza’s eyes snapped up at her voice, alarmed. “Oh, sorry!” she exclaimed, flashing a brilliant smile that betrayed none of the hurt she must’ve felt at being forgotten by her closest friend. Waltzing over to where Riza was, she plopped herself down on the floor to introduce herself, still with the same self-assured grin plastered across her pretty face. “I’m Rebecca. Rebecca Catalina.”

“She’s a friend of yours, Riza,” Mustang supplied when he saw her questioning frown.

“Oh…” 

Disappointment flickered across Rebecca’s expressive eyes briefly. “I’m sure you’ve had a long day. We can catch up some other time,” she reassured, leaning over to give Hayate a fond pat.

“Right. I-I’d like to have an early night. If you don’t mind?” Seeing the way her half-lidded eyes attested to her weariness, Roy quickly ushered her into the room he’d prepared for her. Hayate padded along, not willing to part from his master so soon after their short reunion. 

At the tired blonde’s beckon, he entered, tail wagging happily once he’d found a comfortable spot to be his makeshift bed. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled, and Roy knew she wasn’t just referring to the room. 

“It’s okay. Can I help you with your bandages?” he asked, pointing to the soaked linen around her hands and neck. 

Riza bit her lip, hesitating. “Okay,” she whispered, and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, surprising even Roy himself. He’d half expected her to shove him out of the room with insistent objection, but she _had_ accepted his offer. Surely that must have amounted to something? 

_Or,_ maybe it was just the practical side of her acknowledging that it would’ve been easier for him to do so, since her hands were probably still aching from the stab wounds. 

Trying not to get his hopes up, he reached out to remove the damp dressings, and then replaced it with the new ones he’d left on the bedside table. Despite his best efforts to be as gentle as possible, though, her unease was apparent from the way she shivered at his touch. Roy therefore worked as fast as he could to avoid causing her further distress, reminding himself not to take it personally. He couldn’t - and wouldn’t - expect Riza to trust a stranger like him overnight. It was perfectly sensible for her to be wary of someone she hardly knew. 

Besides, befriending her all those years ago had taught him full well that trust and friendship were earned, not given. 

“Thank you,” she said again, once he was done. 

“It’s no problem at all. Sleep well, lieu- Riza.” 

Clenching his fists to resist the sudden impulse to kiss her goodnight, he quickly went into the kitchen in search of a drink. Mustang filled two glasses generously with whiskey before heading back into the living room to deal with a certain raven-haired female. 

“I have to say, I’m mildly impressed,” Rebecca cackled, stretching languorously on his leathery couch once she’d chucked her bag aside. “What’s the spare room for? Your harlotrous conquests?” 

“That’s not even a word,” he scoffed, handing her a glass. “And really, the only red threads I have are on the back of my gloves. Not my breast pocket.” 

“Believe me, I could easily picture you walking around with a scarlet letter on your chest announcing your promiscuity, if Riza hadn’t constantly jumped to defend your honor,” and she stuck her tongue out childishly at him before sipping at the alcohol, making a pleased sound at the back of her throat as she swallowed. 

Mustang smiled inwardly. He _had_ picked out a good one on purpose, even if she wasn’t always deserving of his generosity. 

“And I could always court-martial you for insubordination, Second Lieutenant Catalina,” he responded dryly. 

“I’d like to see you try _,_ ” she challenged, winking. Unfazed, Mustang smirked and brought the glass to his lips; drinking until there was a mild, pleasant buzz in his head before he willed himself to stop. Sobriety was crucial for his role as caretaker, after all. 

“And on that note, what do you think I am, an idiot? Of course I wasn’t going to throw myself on Riza like some over-excited monkey after all the shit she’s suffered! You didn’t have to tell Havoc to remind me to exercise self-restraint,” Rebecca glared at him, before adding emphatically, “ _Sir_.” 

“Hard to say,” he chuckled weakly. “But thanks, though. For coming, and for bringing Hayate.” 

“Like I said, it’s for her, not for you,” she repeated, reaching into the pockets of her coat to fish out a photograph of her and Riza. It was one of them when they were still in the academy; adolescents who hadn’t yet been exposed to the gruesome side of military life. They looked radiantly happy. Carefree. Riza had a shy, timid smile on her youthful face, while Rebecca’s was a lot wider; brighter. “Thousand cenz I’ll get her to remember me first,” and she brandished the picture wildly in the air to emphasise her point. 

Even Mustang had to laugh at that. Really she was indefatigable by this point, and despite their strange dynamics he was grateful that Riza had a friend like her. Someone who was tenacious and loyal to a fault; who would do anything to make sure she was fine. 

Funny how they had more in common than they realised. 

Not one to give up without a fight, Mustang rose from his seat to retrieve a book from a nearby shelf before coming back. The pages were yellowed, the leathered cover worn out, but within its pages there was a small, faded photograph that was slightly crinkled at the edges. 

One of him and little Miss Hawkeye. 

“You’re not the only one with evidence, you know,” he smirked, running a hand over the cherished picture. Riza’s smile was smaller here; more reserved, but joy and childlike innocence shone like stars in her eyes even as she stood stiffly beside a younger version of himself. 

Years later, it was still capable of bringing forth a rush of wistful memories, and Roy could only hope that it would have the same effect on her as it did on him. 

The two sat for a while in uncharacteristic silence. Neither made a move to comfort the other, but words weren’t needed to express empathy. Loss - of someone dear, and as to what to do next - plagued them both, and it wasn’t something that the alcohol could assuage. 

“Well, before we get lost in sentimentalism and I forget.” Reaching for her bag, Rebecca withdrew a stack of papers and shoved it at Mustang. “Here,” she grumbled, face darkening considerably as she did so. Its contents were scribbled in an inelegant sort of cursive - the kind that was written in a nonchalant haste, out of a desire to leave work as soon as possible - despite the gravity of it. 

Mustang’s eyes widened like saucers as soon as they landed on the title. 

“What the hell is this, Catalina?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to @RainFlame for her invaluable feedback and encouragement, and for inspiring confidence in me when I was just letting the draft of this chapter marinate in self-doubt on my Google Docs 😆 thank you, friend! 💕
> 
> -
> 
> Alas, the plot moveths. LOL 
> 
> Shameless reference to Nathaniel Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter, but since that was written sometime around 1850 let's assume it already existed in 20th century Amestris, yeah? xD  
> If you're interested, the songs that I had in mind during their dinner were: (1) Just My Imagination, The Temptations (the song about unrequited love): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M5Z9-QCmZyw , and (2) Hungry Heart, Bruce Springsteen (one of my all-time favourites): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=boJhWtw-6Gg , because I am a sucker for oldies 😆
> 
> -
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Leave a comment or [say hi on Tumblr (@firewoodfigs)](https://firewoodfigs.tumblr.com) if you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought, and they definitely motivate me to write faster :'D feedback and concrit are always welcome, too (I've been reading a lot of 20th century literature recently, so pardon me if my writing sounds a little wacky here, HAHA). I may take awhile to reply to comments, but know that I appreciate every single one of them dearly 💕
> 
> Till then, stay safe and take care, and I hope you all have a blessed week ahead! :)


	5. Chapter 5

_“Hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally.” - Louisa May Alcott, Little Women_

**~x~**

“It is what it is,” Rebecca said darkly. 

Mustang glanced at the letter again, hoping he’d read it wrongly the first time. But he hadn’t. The same words stared back at him, declaring: 

_This is to certify that First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye,  
_ _Assistant to the late Fuhrer Bradley  
_ _Is hereby honourably discharged from the military service of Amestris._

 _Signed,_  
_General Trask  
_ _Veteran Affairs Department_

_With approval from Fuhrer Grumman_

General Trask... He didn’t know him personally, but he knew that name. It’d been the same person who had signed Havoc’s discharge after the incident with Lust and approved its issuance only a couple days after his diagnosis. And Mustang had been thoroughly pissed to see how short and dismissive the letter was; as if he could’ve cared less that he was firing one of his most important subordinates. Of course, the reasons were obvious, and prolix explanations were probably unnecessary, but that hadn’t really made it any better. Not to mention his reputation for giving out discharge papers like candy. 

“Damn it,” he growled, the anger and frustration that he’d felt back then multiplying tenfold this time. “With approval from Grumman, too? What’s he thinking?” 

“Don’t raise your voice. Unless you want to wake Riza up,” Rebecca admonished. 

Crumpling the letter in one hand, Mustang suppressed a string of expletives and reclined in his seat. “I need another drink,” he grunted at last, rumpling his hair in frustration. 

“And _I_ need a refill,” she prompted, shoving her own glass towards him. 

With his hands now occupied with their empty glasses and devoid of the damned letter, Mustang rose to withdraw another bottle of wine from his cabinet and refilled both glasses to the brim. He would’ve taken out something to accompany it with, but the only things he had in his fridge were spoiled milk and stale bread. That wouldn’t do, he thought. He’d have to make sure to stock up on his groceries tomorrow so that Riza had something to eat. The weeks spent in the hospital hadn’t been kind to her physique; he’d noticed her protruding collarbones when he was helping her change her dressings earlier. And overall, she just looked… hollower. 

_An empty shell of who she was._

Mustang sighed, but willed his train of thought to stop before it could descend into something more depressing. Cogitation was a fruitless endeavour. It wouldn’t solve anything, and besides, there were more pressing issues at hand for now.

“Here.” Sinking back onto the couch, he handed Rebecca her glass. They drank until they’d made a healthy dent in the wine, although it seemed even its sweetness couldn’t quite wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. “Have you spoken to Grumman about this?” 

“Of course. Gave that damn fox a piece of my mind, too, which was why I came around later than expected,” and Mustang believed her wholeheartedly. Even his position as Fuhrer wouldn’t have saved him from the wrath of his irascible, half-insane assistant. “I thought he would’ve intervened, given that he’s her grandfather, but he said there wasn’t much he could do without raising suspicion. And then… he made some comment about how this could actually work in _your_ favour instead?” 

The liquor chased away the anger that had been fogging up his mind temporarily, offering Mustang a moment of clarity to properly think. Given that there was no knowing whether Riza would ever - well, _recover_ , he supposed it wasn’t all that surprising that they’d given her a honorable discharge instead of granting an extended medical leave. There was no way he’d allow her to return to work in her current condition, anyway. 

And then there was the fact that she was presently living with him - which obviously had to be kept secret, somehow - given that the anti-fraternisation laws were still strictly in place… 

Ah. _Right_. 

“I assume you told him about the current living arrangements?” 

“Yeah. He offered to let Riza stay with him, but I figured you’d be a better choice, since you’ve been stuck with her the whole time she was out like a bloody fixture. Not to mention you’d probably throw a pissy fit if she was taken away from you,” Rebecca shrugged. She suddenly whirled around to face him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “That said, you better take damn good care of her. If I hear anything about -” 

“Please, Catalina. I can’t believe you thought you even had to ask,” Mustang snorted. “Although, I suppose Grumman has a point. This _could_ be beneficial - I wouldn’t want her to get into trouble for staying with her direct superior, after all,” he said, finishing the rest of his wine.

Something seemed to click in Rebecca’s mind then, as her eyes widened in realisation. 

“Damn, you’re right. I kinda forgot about that for a moment,” she admitted sheepishly. “Hadn’t thought how _that_ would look, since you two are practically attached at the hip.” 

“ _Or,_ you forgot about those laws and ended up with a certain blonde, who coincidentally happens to be a subordinate of mine,” Mustang teased, the slight buzz from the alcohol having revived his sense of humor. 

“Oh, shut up. One, we’re not even in the same chain of command, and two, he’s not even officially back into the ranks yet,” Rebecca grumbled, rolling her eyes. 

Mustang grinned at her confirmation. So there _was_ something going on between them, after all.

“What are you going to do when he returns after he’s done with his physiotherapy sessions, though?” 

“The same shit that you’ve been doing with your adjutant. Pretend like there’s nothing going on when there obviously is,” she retorted, waggling her brows. 

“I never said there’s nothing going on,” Mustang answered evasively, knowing it’d pique her curiosity. 

“Wait, so what’s going on? I always thought you two were stuck in this vicious cycle of dating-but-we’re-just-friends nonsense! Riza always refused to spill anything whenever I interrogated her,” Rebecca cried. “Details,” she commanded, shoving a perfectly manicured finger at his amused expression as she downed the rest of her drink. 

“Maybe next time,” he smirked, toying with the stem of his glass. “Equivalent exchange. We can talk when you have more interesting stories to tell me about you and my subordinate.” 

To be fair, there _really_ hadn’t been much going on. They had history, yes, and there had been a ton of unspoken affection blurring the lines of professionalism between them. But their duties and obligations had always taken precedence over desire; over any vain pursuit of romance. 

Besides... It was probably all unrequited now, anyway.

“Fine. Anyway, I’m not as good at suppressing my feelings like you two morons, so I might quit the military eventually,” she confessed, earning a surprised look from Mustang. “Well, the old geezer raised an interesting suggestion today about working for your aunt. And I _do_ have the perfect combination of brains and sex appeal to do so, if we’re being honest here.” 

“Keep deluding yourself, I guess.” Huffing indignantly, Rebecca’s face twisted into a sullen glower, and Mustang got the impression that she would’ve told him to do something anatomically impossible to himself if he wasn’t still her superior. “I mean, sure. Not hard to imagine you fitting in with the beautiful ladies of the cabaret,” he coughed, sniggering behind a palm. “But whatever would poor old Grumman do without his dearest assistant?” 

“I’m sure there’ll be plenty of others willing to substitute _me._ Enough for him to form his own personal harem, even,” Rebecca said, simpering as she combed a hand through dark, lustrous tresses. “And at least that way, I don’t have to get bogged down by piles of boring paperwork and lame rumor mills. You, on the other hand…” Mustang groaned. His desk was probably made out of more paperwork than wood by this point. “How are _you_ going to deal with that and taking care of Riza?”

“Hate to admit it, but you make a fair point, Catalina.” How, exactly, was he supposed to deal with all of _that,_ now that his most efficient subordinate wasn’t around? And was there a way he could be in two places at once, such that he could be around to take care of Riza while tending to the stacks of administrivia? No. Bio-alchemy hadn’t yet progressed to the point where he could clone himself, unfortunately. “I’ll drop by the office tomorrow and work something out. Could you come by tomorrow and stay with her?” 

“I can’t believe you thought you even had to ask,” she echoed disdainfully. 

“Well, I’d hate for you to show up uninvited to my house while I’m not around. God knows what you’d do in my absence,” he quipped back.

“Nothing _too_ destructive, I can assure you, since I’m still encumbered by military ranks. But yeah, I will,” Rebecca said, stifling a yawn, before her expression hardened. “Are you… are you going to tell Riza about her discharge?” 

“No. She doesn’t need to know about her… involvement with the military.” Or the crimes she'd committed, for that matter. 

“Got it.” Mustang smiled, grateful for her understanding. Perhaps she really could make an excellent addition to his aunt’s espionage business, after all; underneath that deceptively pretty face was someone who was a lot more perceptive than others gave her credit for. “Alright, I’m gonna make a move first. It’s getting late, and I need my beauty sleep.” 

“Of course. Could you not do anything I wouldn’t do while you’re around tomorrow?” 

“That’s like, a never-ending list. You’re going to have to be more specific, _sir_.” 

“Just… don’t scare her -” 

“Oh come on! We’re still on that?” she exclaimed. “I get it, she’s a little touchy and defensive and whatnot now, and I’m not an idiot. Stop being such a nag, you worrywart. Any more and you’re gonna get a face full of wrinkles by forty,” and she stormed out of his apartment before he could proceed to nag further. 

Chuckling weakly, Mustang turned to the sink to wash the cups after he’d locked the door. He wasn’t normally one for chivvying ( _that_ was usually left to Hawkeye). But even he had to admit, he tended to regress into a bit of a worrywart whenever Riza was involved. 

Just a bit, of course. 

Once he was done cleaning, he prepared to head to his room in search of a good night’s rest. But the sounds of gasping, laboured breathing coming from Riza’s room quickly made him pause in his tracks. 

Mustang grimaced. If he hadn’t been a soldier who’d been so inured to violence and screaming, he might’ve kicked down her door; rushed in to comfort and rescue her from whatever nightmares were plaguing her. 

But he was. And besides, years of suppressing his desires had well taught him how to exercise remarkable self-restraint. 

So he resorted to waiting outside her room like a restless ghost, just in case she wanted to seek solace from him by her own initiative. And when she didn’t, Roy resigned and went to bed instead, knowing that she’d kept the door tightly bolted for a reason. 

Guilt continued to weigh on his conscience; on his aching heart and worry-addled mind as he tossed and turned in bed. Eventually, though, the fatigue and the warm haze of alcohol won over. 

Roy soon fell into a fitful slumber, tormented by the visceral memory of the events underground: Riza’s throat getting slashed from ear to ear. Wrath diving at him, his swords glinting like sharp beams of a searchlight through a dark room. And yet, before he could even react, she’d already shoved him out of the way to offer herself as a living sacrifice.

And there she was again, in his dreams. Crucified to the ground. Eyes firmly shut even as he fiercely reminded her that she was under strict orders not to die; even as Edward knelt beside them with utter despair in his golden eyes, looking very much like the child he’d first met who had failed to bring his mother back to life. Blood oozed out from her hands in steady streams of wine-red, staining his gloves and his soul as he cradled her lifeless form to his chest. Crying, pleading. Begging with religious desperation for her to be spared from death’s wrath, even as her countenance took on its pale translucence.

_Stay with me, Lieutenant. Please._

_You’re all I have. I can’t afford to lose you._

_Take my sight, my life, my dreams. Anything._

_Anything but her._

**~x~**

“Hey,” Roy called, watching Riza amble out of the bathroom with a towel around her neck. Relief swelled in his chest at the sight of her. _Alive._ Not quite well, but alive, at least. But while a part of him wanted to enfold her in his arms to reaffirm that he wasn’t dreaming, her startled gaze quickly dissuaded him from doing so. “Did you have a good rest?” 

“I-I did, thank you. And… you?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest defensively. Her eyes remained obstinately averted from his, as if she were debating whether to retreat back into the relative privacy of her room or stay around for just a little bit longer.

“I did, too.” Roy shucked off his coat and headed over to the fridge to put away all the groceries he’d bought earlier, then carefully laid out the breakfast he’d gotten for them on the dining table. “Would you like to accompany me for breakfast?”

Seeming to hesitate for a moment, Riza slowly made her way over and settled into the seat across him. 

“Thanks,” she said, nodding curtly.

“It’s alright. How are you feeling now, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

“I’m better, thank you.” 

Roy nudged a red bean bun and a cup of lemon tea towards her. Wordless and prim, Riza accepted it and mouthed her thanks once more. 

And the uneasy, tentative formality of it all brought Roy back to the first few times he’d tried to coax her into having breakfast with him during his stay in the Hawkeye’s manor. It had taken a considerable amount of time before he’d managed to convince her that he wasn’t a creep with some hidden agenda; he’d really just wanted company. After all, the deafening lack of conviviality in the estate hadn’t done his fidgety teenage self any good. 

Desperate for some sort of human contact, then, he’d persisted in his attempts to get to know the shy, elusive girl, until she was finally persuaded that he was about as harmless as sheep. 

“That’s good. Are your wounds giving you any trouble?” Roy asked. Amused and saddened by the memory, he bit into the banana muffin he’d gotten for himself and grimaced. It was a tad too dry for his liking. Nothing like the ones Riza used to make, but he supposed it’d do for sustenance’s sake. 

“No. I’m fine, really,” she insisted, picking at the soft pastry idly. 

Deciding now was as good a time as any to explain the intended arrangement to her, Roy ploughed on. “Alright. Just… just get as much rest as you can for now, okay? And - well, I have to leave in a bit to get to work, but I’ve asked Rebecca to come by. She should be here shortly,” he said, consulting the clock that stood in his hallway.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Riza muttered, glaring holes into the table. 

“No, no. That’s not what I meant,” he lied. Okay, maybe he was still a little paranoid about leaving her alone, but doctor’s orders, right? “She’s just - she’s really looking forward to seeing you, too,” he cajoled.

Straightening in her seat a little, Riza sipped at her tea in silence. Her jaw remained firmly clenched. An odd mix of fear and defiance shone in her hardened eyes, before she finally acquiesced to his proposal. “Fine,” she nodded, eyes averted once again. 

Roy sighed inwardly. He still wasn’t quite sure how to navigate through the novelty of their current relationship, to be honest. It was a bit like walking through a minefield; Riza did always tend to get more irritable when she felt vulnerable.

And though he’d already made up his mind, starting from square one was, admittedly, a lot easier said than done. 

**~x~**

“Well, shouldn’t you get going?” Riza asked once they’d finished their breakfast. 

Roy made quick work of cleaning the table up, politely declining her offers of help like she’d always done during his apprenticeship. “Don’t worry, I’m not in a rush to get to work,” he said, waving a dismissive hand as he rinsed the cleaning rags and dishes. 

“I don’t want to make you late,” Riza mumbled, looking somewhat uncomfortable with the dishwashing ban he’d imposed. 

“You’re not, don’t worry,” he chuckled, mildly amused at the irony. 

Were things the way they’d been, Hawkeye would no doubt already have his head on a platter for procrastinating. 

“... Are you sure?” 

“Very. Why don’t we take some time to admire the flowers for a bit? I’m sure we could both use some fresh air,” and Roy draped his coat over her before gently guiding her towards the balcony. He hoped the sight of spring would alleviate her unease a little, given that had always been her favourite season. 

Outside, petals fell from trees and scattered like confetti in the wind, fluttering mid-air before floating down to the earth. Riza watched the scene unfurl in front of her, mesmerised. And as he observed her from the corner of his eye, Roy couldn’t help but wonder if she remembered anything about the youth they’d shared in the countryside. 

_“Spring in the countryside sure is incredible,” Roy breathed excitedly, trailing after Miss Hawkeye as she led him towards a small clearing in the meadows. The soft, silky grass was adorned with wildflowers in varying hues of red and white, pink and cream. The afternoon was blissfully golden. Dandelions and daffodils glided in the sunlight and beyond the fields; far across the bright, shimmery sky. And Roy thought that this surely must have been what a fairytale looked like, if it were ever possible for such a thing to spring to life. Eden, as one of his sisters would’ve said._

_“It really is,” she whispered, equally awed herself as they settled down under a tree that was breaking into leaf. “It’s my favourite time of the year, I think.”_

_Roy’s personal favourites were the tulips and poppies dotting the fields in brilliant specks of crimson and ivory. “Reminds me of the tale of the Red King and the White Queen,” he commented, placing a fallen poppy atop a white tulip. “The poppies could be the red crowns, and -”_

_“The tulips could be the white dresses?” she interjected softly._

_“Exactly! What do you think?”_

_“Huh?”_

_“I mean, you’re always reading, so I’m sure you must have a sentiment or two that’s far more poetic than mine,” he wheedled, for he’d always admired her intellect and love for books._

_Riza hesitated for a moment, somewhat abashed by the compliment. “Well, there’s this quote that I really like,” she began shyly. Roy smiled at her encouragingly, egging her on. “It says: We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it, if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring, that we used to gather with our tiny fingers,” she quoted in that soft, gentle tone of hers._

_Thrilled by her recitation, Roy smiled and inched just a little closer to her. Gently, he slid the poppy he’d been fiddling with behind her left ear, before leaning back to admire his handiwork. “That’s a nice sentiment. To more springs together, hm?”_

_For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Roy began to wonder if he’d unintentionally crossed a line or offended her somehow with his actions, and was about to apologise when Riza suddenly leaned over to place a bunch of thin, stray twigs on top of his already mussed hair, giggling quietly to herself as she did so._

_“Hey! Now my hair looks like a bird’s nest,” he cried as he frantically got them out, though his indignance only had the effect of sending her into a laughing fit. At this, Roy couldn’t help but grin widely too, twigs forgotten. It was nice to hear her laughing without any reservations or restraint, especially when she had always been so tense; so painfully withdrawn when they’d first met._

_A testament to their friendship that had blossomed over time._

_And Roy decided, then, that he’d do anything to see her like this again: laughter spilling from her lips unbridled as sunlight sparkled in her honest, honeyed eyes._

But Riza’s expression told him that she clearly didn’t remember any of that. 

Roy smiled wistfully. 

_You might not remember me, Riza… But it’s alright. I’ll always be here, no matter what._

**~x~**

The girl - _Rebecca,_ Riza reminded herself - had come around shortly after (and it was only then that Roy was willing to leave her alone), bearing a box of strawberry pudding and a bag of treats for Hayate, amongst an assortment of… many other things, if the way her bag was on the brink of exploding was any indication. 

Unnerved by her presence, Riza couldn’t help but stiffen slightly as they settled down on the couch. Her only source of comfort was the furry little pup nuzzling its head into her lap, who began barking excitedly as soon as he saw the bone-shaped biscuit creeping out of the paper bag. 

“Good to see you again,” Rebecca chirped, untangling the red shawl draped around her neck once Hayate had gobbled up his treat from her outstretched hand. “Have you had breakfast?” 

Riza nodded, unsure of how to continue the conversation. She needn’t have worried, though, for Rebecca was quick to launch into a flurry of words. If she just listened attentively, she could make out hints of a vague, incoherent ramble of how glad she was to see her out of the hospital… and Riza nodded again, agreeing wholeheartedly. Though she still felt rather out of place here, it was far preferable to being trapped in a hospital room that smelt like bleach and death and nothing like spring. 

“How are _you_ feeling, by the way? Did Roy bother you or anything?” she asked, suddenly sounding very much like an overprotective mother bear. 

“I’m better, thank you.” Riza blinked, nonplussed by the abrupt change of topic and tone. “And no, he didn’t. You needn’t have come -” 

“Nonsense. I was really looking forward to seeing you,” she interrupted, beaming. 

Silence ensued. Riza would’ve been lying if she said that it was the same for her, her, because the truth was that she _had_ been apprehensive about their meeting ever since Roy brought it up. 

Although… the girl’s smile now seemed a bit too forced to be natural. Hurt glistened in her dark, expressive eyes for the briefest moment before she resumed her cheerful demeanour. “And I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better. We - well, we have _a lot_ to catch up on,” Rebecca added, offering a cup of pastel-coloured pudding to her.

Not wanting to further upset the girl who was supposed to be her friend, Riza politely accepted and ate carefully, surprised at its sweetness. 

“Good, right? The strawberry pudding at Nellie’s has always been our favourite, and - oh. I mean, it probably feels a bit strange hearing that, doesn’t it?” Rebecca wiped the sticky residue off her fingers with a napkin before fishing something out of her pocket. “Sorry. This is an old picture of us, if it helps,” she said, smiling sheepishly.

“Right,” was all Riza could muster as she traced the old, wrinkled photograph. 

The smiling faces of two strangers stared back at her. 

“We took that when we were like, eighteen, I think.” That sounded accurate. Her face appeared softer, rounder; courtesy of baby fat that hadn’t yet been entirely shed. And they _did_ seem rather chummy, if the way Rebecca’s arm was haphazardly slung around her was any indication. “We were in the same... school, dormitory, sorta. And in your youthful ignorance, your first impression of me was that I was, to quote, ‘ _loud and weird and a bit of an oddball_ ’,” added Rebecca, with an injured sniff that was more theatrical than anything else. 

Riza’s lips quirked upwards into a tiny half-smile in spite of herself. It seemed she had something in common with her past self, at least. 

“But hey, we eventually became bosom buddies,” Rebecca pressed on. Undeterred, she then proceeded to launch into an explanation of they’d gotten closer through slinking into the kitchens to bake pie and make noodles at the ungodliest hours, as the food served in the refectory had apparently been wholly unsuitable for human consumption (Riza was surprised to learn that she was an excellent cook); through cramming for exams and tests together in a dimly lit room into the wee hours of dawn (which seemed to mostly involve Riza’s tutelage - or, in Rebecca’s words, saving her ‘sorry ass’).

Quite apart from the humdrums of dormitory life; the patriotic exudations that they were forced to participate in and the ruthless piles of assignments that stole their weekends, there were instances where they’d stargaze while toasting marshmallows over campfires, too. A much-needed reprieve from the mundanity of books and national anthems, Rebecca declared. Then there were the few occasions they had snuck off to some cheap dive bars nearby, after much pleading and wheedling and begging on Rebecca’s end (because Riza had apparently been a ‘stickler for the rules’) - during which she would have gotten completely _smashed_ if not for Riza’s remarkable tolerance for alcohol and even more remarkable self-control. 

“I- wow,” Riza said at last, once she’d come to the end of her animated storytelling session. 

The smallest flash of a frown marred Rebecca’s bright countenance. But her exuberance was tireless: the garden smile was quick to return, like a candle relighted. 

“Yeah, _wow._ You were always the superior friend, see,” she winked, finishing the last of her pudding. “I mean, there’s a lot more, of course, but that’s a pretty concise summary of how we came to be.” Which hadn’t been very concise at all, Riza thought. 

Yet, as if sensing her conflicting feelings of guilt and disbelief, Rebecca was quick to fill the silence before things could turn awkward. “Aw, but don’t fret. There’ll be plenty of time for us to explore that in future. Now, was there anything else you wanted to do for the rest of the day?” 

“Not much, to be honest,” Riza shrugged, a little relaxed by the diversion. “I thought I’d just rest and read a little…” she trailed off, hesitating. 

Prior to leaving for work earlier that day, Roy had given his express permission to browse through his books ( _feel free to do and read whatever you like, Riza - you’ve always been fond of reading)._ But there was a part of her that didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of touching his things, still. Suppose he’d take offence, deem it an invasion of his privacy? 

Before she could dwell on it any further, though, Rebecca had already dragged her to the bookshelf. “A pretty impressive collection, huh?” she whistled. And it was. The shelf - which really was a small library of sorts - housed several hardbacks on literature and chemistry (upon closer scrutiny, she realised it was more specifically to do with alchemy), to treatises on law and politics, to annals of history and anthologies of poetry. 

Riza ran a finger reverently over the spine of a peeling alchemical tome, humming in agreement. 

“Plus, it’s always _interesting_ to see what kind of things men hide in their bookshelves,” Rebecca cackled, in a manner that could only be described as… 

_Scandalous_?

“Huh?” 

“Oh, come on. Men are hardly ever paragons of virtue.” By this point Rebecca was laughing half-maniacally as she rifled through the books on his shelf, searching for some sort of incriminating evidence to prove her earlier statement with. “Look!” she exclaimed, picking a well-worn novel with a drawing of two lovers dancing by the river on its dust jacket, from a stash that was kept distinctly separate from his other books. 

“What’s that?” Riza asked, tome forgotten. 

“Some cheap, plotless drivel procured from the dime store, probably. Usually tells the improbable tale of some lame, half-baked dude sweeping girls off their feet. And in these novels, the girls usually show it by stuttering and blushing, moping around at home aimlessly; behaving like flustered idiots whenever the object of their affection speaks to them,” Rebecca commented offhandedly, still digging. 

“... How do you know all of this so well?” The girl had it nearly pinned down to a mechanical formula, and Riza found herself somewhat amazed as she skimmed through a relatively thin novel from the stash; its contents precisely like how she described it to be. 

The book quickly snapped shut when she arrived at the pages of something inappropriate. 

“Oh, I suppose I’m a romantic at heart myself, too,” confessed Rebecca ruefully, as she pressed a hand over her heart in a melodramatic fashion. 

Amused by her silly antics and theatrics, Riza couldn’t help the light chuckle that escaped her lips. 

“But _I_ don’t do any of that, of course. After all, _I’m_ the one reducing people to flustered idiots,” Rebecca proclaimed, tossing her hair back for emphasis. “And so are you, considering how much a certain someone likes to _nag_ ,” she muttered under her breath inaudibly, before shooting Riza a knowing grin. 

“If you say so.”

Still appalled at its ridiculous contents, Riza deftly placed the novel back to where it belonged. Pretty strange, considering that the other books reposed on his shelf seemed a lot less - well, ludicrous was certainly one way to put it, she supposed. 

Although, now that she thought about it… What kind of a man was she staying with? 

“Damn, this is gold. I can’t wait to interrogate him about this when he comes back!” 

“Um, hang on,” Riza began, uncertain. “That is - I mean, I don’t know, do you think it’s safe for me to be staying here?” 

“... Oh. _Oh._ God, I didn’t mean -” Rebecca giggled, but quickly sobered when she noticed Riza’s apprehension. “I’m kidding, Riza. These probably belong to his sisters, although it wouldn’t hurt to embarrass him with them still. And I hate to be one rushing to defend his honor, but he’s a decent man. Anyone who’s seen the both of you can attest to the fact that he cares for you. A great deal, in fact,” she reassured. 

“... You really think so?” Riza ventured to ask. 

“Yeah, honest. Cross my heart, swear by heaven, all of that. Besides, men usually go for more… _graphic_ stuff, and we haven’t found anything of that sort. Like, there was this one time when we were staying in the dorms and I saw this dude who had his pants halfway down while he was completely engrossed in a -“ 

“It’s okay, I didn’t ask,” Riza interjected, ears burning an undeniable shade of red. 

Rebecca only laughed. 

Hysterically. 

**~x~**

The rest of the day was spent in the kitchen after their encounter with the offensive piece of literature, where they worked on a small, simple batch of vanilla cupcakes - courtesy of Rebecca, who had come with all sorts of baking ingredients in her duffel - from bags of flour to pretty little sprinkles and even freshly plucked vanilla pods.

Actually, it was Rebecca doing most of the mixing and stirring and whatnot: “This role reversal feels kinda strange, but since you’re still recovering I’ll let you off the hook.” 

“I can do it, really -” Riza persisted. It felt strange, sitting by the kitchen counter doing absolutely nothing. 

Maybe she just wasn’t the idle sort?

“Nope! You can do it once _those_ are off,” Rebecca declared, still whisking enthusiastically as she eyed the bandages on her hands. But she was willing to let her help with simple measurements, at least. And owing to a small mishap (which, according to Rebecca, were rather common), Riza had somehow gotten a significant portion of her right arm smothered in flour and a gooey, sticky mixture that made her feel like the cinnamon bun she had with Roy. 

“I’m _so sorry,_ ” Rebecca laughed, her own arms covered in white as well. 

“Perhaps I should’ve helped after all,” Riza stated matter-of-factly, none too pleased at their current predicament. 

Rebecca nodded sagely, still giggling as she placed the tray into the oven. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up first?” 

“Are you going to be alright by yourself?”

“Yeah, unless the oven blows up on me, but I can’t be faulted for a malfunctioning kitchen appliance in a house that’s not even mine, you know,” Rebecca said nonchalantly, peering at the oven every now and then to check if the mixture was rising as it ought to be. 

“I guess...” 

Shrugging, Riza turned to get ready for a shower and headed straight for the bathroom, hands itching from the flour. 

The first rush of water was comfortingly warm. And now that all the drugs in her system had worn off, she was able to better process the events of the day and her emotions as she performed her ablutions. 

It had been a rather… _surreal_ experience, so to speak, listening to the girl recount all these events which she had no recollection of. Tales that sounded like faraway myths she couldn’t arrange into a self. Halfway through Rebecca’s retelling, she’d tried valiantly to prod at her own memories for something, _anything_ to corroborate these details of her life with. 

But nothing resurfaced. Nothing. Not even the ridiculous memory of climbing over a twelve-foot tall gate to escape the crummy dorms had conjured itself in her mind. A great chasm lay between past and present, it seemed. One that her futile prying and prodding couldn’t quite overcome. And it was then that she’d arrived at the conclusion that, quite apart from depending on hearsay and old photographs; on stories that sounded more like folklore rather than memoirs… 

There really wasn’t anything else she could do to figure out who she was. 

Riza frowned as the water trailed down her back. 

It was like being born again, having to learn all over. Confusing. Frustrating. And - disappointing? But disappointment wasn’t an emotion that belonged to her alone. There was the whole encounter with Rebecca, too, which had been strangely unsettling. And it wasn’t because of the fact that she’d spilled flour all over her, or that _she_ knew her better than she knew herself. The other reason was that Rebecca really appeared genuinely upset; _disappointed_ that she no longer remembered her. 

Whatever had erased her memories hadn’t just hurt her, then. It hurt everyone else who knew and cared for her as well. Speaking of... Did Roy perhaps feel the same way, too? 

She thought back to his strained smiles, to the melancholy in his dark eyes whenever he thought she wasn’t looking; as if he were sullied by some great, worldly peril. And Riza sighed. 

He probably did. 

Yet, even the mere thought of opening up to them like a flower in spring was enough to unnerve her. Doubt and suspicion stood like an impregnable fortress between her and them; between old and new. A bulwark against companionship and affection, against trust and sentiment. But that didn’t mean she necessarily enjoyed inflicting pain on others, either. It was bad enough that she was afflicted herself, no?

Lost in thought, Riza failed to even notice the red, livid lines splayed across her back as she exited the shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer chapter this time, but I hope you enjoyed!! 💕 
> 
> Kudos/bookmarks/comments are always deeply appreciated. <3 This chapter would not have been possible without all your support, really 🥺 I might take awhile to respond to comments, but know that every one of them means the world to me, and I'll be re-reading them in the process of writing the next chapter for motivation and inspiration 😉  
> You can also [say hi on Tumblr (@firewoodfigs)](https://firewoodfigs.tumblr.com) if you're there!! 😆  
> Till then, stay safe and take care, everyone! 💖
> 
> -
> 
> For reference, the quote that Riza was referring to is from George Eliot's "The Mill on The Floss"  
> *minor amendment made to the last line - apologies, it was 4am when I uploaded this and my brain was not working :'D Thanks to those who pointed out the confusion! <3


	6. Chapter 6

_"What is it to forget a human being? - It is to forget what one suffered through him." - Marina Tsvetaeva,_ _Nine Letters with a Tenth Held Back and an Eleventh Received_

**~x~**

It had taken Mustang all of his willpower to head to work that morning. 

Not that _that_ was a novelty, but now that Riza was no longer going to be there? He couldn’t fathom handling the restoration project without his precious Lieutenant. They’d embarked on this journey together to begin with, after all. Expiation and restoration had been _their_ shared mission and life goal. 

Lacking her by his side now, the burden rested on his shoulders alone. And the inertia was incredible. Insurmountable, even, especially considering her current state. Mustang had only managed to get himself to the office when Riza’s ostensibly growing annoyance at his refusal to leave her alone looked like it was about to explode. 

That, coupled with Catalina’s none-too-subtle way of telling him to screw off. 

(From his own apartment, no less.)

To be fair, work hadn’t been all that bad. The rest of his team (what remained of it, anyway) had even gone so far as to get started on the preliminary research required for rebuilding Ishval, leaving a stack of manila folders on his desk stuffed with a whole bunch of proposals. From the suitability of different socioeconomic models for a war torn state, to the viability of various farming arrangements for an arid, unforgiving climate in the desert - they’d managed to cover quite a fair bit of ground, and to say that Mustang appreciated their zeal and efficiency was a major understatement.

But it was also painfully obvious that they were all deeply affected by Hawkeye’s glaring absence. 

By way of unspoken agreement, everyone had wisely refrained from open discussion, but the changes in their moods and behaviour made it clear enough. Falman was more listless than usual despite the fact that he’d recently gotten himself a girlfriend, and appeared less excited to put his encyclopaedia of a brain to use. Breda’s appetite had decreased dramatically. He’d gone from snacking on five hotdogs a day to three, then two and a half. Saving his money for Havoc’s return and their shared bundle of cigarettes and vices, he claimed. And Fuery, the confirmed optimist amongst them, seemed to have a cloud of gloom hanging overhead wherever he went - a feat Mustang hadn’t thought possible until now. 

Because terrorised as they were, they’d all genuinely cared for her as a friend, too. And who could blame them, when underneath that stoic exterior lay a woman who was as fiercely devoted as she was gentle and kind? Who kept them all on their toes with strict discipline, but knew all their standard lunch orders by heart? Who would make all sorts of herbal remedies and iced concoctions whenever one of them fell ill without even being asked? 

Maybe this was what it felt like to lose a limb: functioning, but incomplete. 

Mustang knew he ought to have been counting his blessings, really. It was a miracle that the rest of them had gotten away mostly unscathed despite their active participation in a catastrophe of cataclysmic proportions. But while he was no doubt grateful for his ever-faithful subordinates who’d stuck by him through hell and back, every unoccupied seat in his office was like a punch to the gut. 

_Find as many people who can understand you and support you all the way to the top_. 

How ironic, considering his biggest pillars of support had all been taken away one by one ever since he’d gotten embroiled in the whole mess involving the Homunculi. First his closest friend, then his Knight, and now his Queen? 

By this point Mustang had gotten so desperate for his team to be whole again, even the idea of having Fullmetal gallivanting around and destroying public property with reckless glee didn’t sound so bad. 

Shit. 

Maybe he’d lost his sanity underground. Or maybe he was just sleep-deprived. 

Sighing for the umpteenth time that day, Mustang began to trawl through the rest of the documents awaiting his approval. 

“We’ve been mostly tasked to focus on policy making, sir,” Falman informed, gesturing to a small, neat pile on his desk that was kept distinctly separate. “The actual groundwork is currently being led by Major Miles and Scar.” 

Mustang nodded. It was a perfectly valid arrangement. He doubted the Ishvalans would be turning cartwheels over having the same person responsible for executing the military’s scorched earth policy restore it to its former glory, anyway. 

“And I can certainly make arrangements for us to contact you at your personal line privately, sir. That way, you can keep abreast of the latest developments or be contacted if anything urgent crops up,” Fuery chimed in, fiddling with a few cords of green and red wires. 

“That would be great, Fuery. I’d really appreciate that.” 

“Yeah, don’t worry about us, Boss,” Breda grunted, arms crossed as he swivelled around languidly in his chair. “We might not have the Lieutenant to keep us on our toes for now, but we ain’t gonna laze around in her absence. Otherwise she’d just shoot us all when she returns for slacking off,” and they chuckled collectively at that. 

Somehow the image of her reprimanding them for wasting the citizens’ taxes had become infinitely precious. Dearly missed, even. 

“Right on that point. Alright. I’ll drop by every now and then to check on things, but just drop me a call if there’s anything urgent,” Mustang said.

“We will. Take care, sir,” they said in unison. 

“Thank you. Dismissed,” and they nodded, saluting before departing the room to attend to other errands. 

Mustang sighed again once they were gone, forcing himself to clear a little more work before leaving. Catalina deserved to spend some time alone with her best friend. And although his Lieutenant wasn’t around to witness it, the alacrity with which he approached the next stack of documents would have undoubtedly made her proud. 

But the hours had never felt so long. And never had he longed to return home so badly, knowing that Riza would at least be there. 

**~x~**

“What’s this?” Mustang asked. The smell of freshly baked cupcakes hit him as soon as he stepped foot into his apartment. “Who baked?” 

“I did,” Rebecca announced. A triumphant grin crossed her features as she withdrew the tray from the oven and noted that none of them were burnt.

“Is this your way of trying to assassinate me?” 

“No. Believe it or not, I can actually be nice when I want to be.” Smirking, she poked at one of the cupcakes with a toothpick. “See? Baked to perfection,” she declared, just as the toothpick came out without any raw batter on it. 

“That’s… well, that’s very kind of you, Catalina. If I didn’t know any better, I might actually be inclined to think you’re fond of me.” 

Rebecca snorted loudly. “ _Please._ Don’t get ahead of yourself. It was a nice bonding activity, and this,” she gestured to the cupcakes, now resting on a cooling rack, “is just a collateral benefit which you happen to have the privilege of enjoying, too.” 

Mustang smiled. Once he’d hung up his coat on the rack, he made his way over and placed the dinner he’d gotten for them on the table. “How’d everything go?” 

“Not bad, I guess,” said Rebecca, but there was an undertone of glumness he didn’t miss from her response. Mustang waited for an elaboration, prompting her with silence. “I showed her our photograph and told her how we became friends, all that stuff, but she didn’t seem to remember anything at all.”

Overcome by empathy as he remembered the tension over breakfast, Mustang reached out to place a hand on a flour-crusted arm. 

Rebecca’s immediate response was to recoil sharply. 

“Ew, gross. I’m fine. Don’t get all sappy and supportive with me,” and they both laughed at that. 

“Tough. Can’t say my irresistible charm works on you,” he said plaintively, although his ego was hardly injured in the least. 

“Course not. I have better taste in men than that. Speaking of - we happened to chance upon some suspicious-looking books today.” Her eyes twinkled impishly, as if she’d been planning on ambushing him with some harebrained scheme that she’d spent the entire afternoon plotting. 

Amused, he decided to play along. “What?” 

“Let’s wait for Riza to return before the grand confrontation,” sniggered Rebecca, who was now carelessly decorating the cupcakes that had cooled down with pink icing and heart-shaped sprinkles; an image that was wholly incongruous to the picture Mustang had of her. 

“You’re ruining the cupcakes, Catalina.” 

“My decorating skills are better than yours.” 

Mustang quirked an eyebrow at that, inviting a challenge. “You sure?” 

“Absolutely. The bet’s on, jerk,” and her face scrunched up into a look of intense concentration - one that he’d often seen on his Lieutenant when she was at the firing range.

Not one to back out from a bet, Mustang picked up a piping bag and began to do the same. Belatedly, he realised he was following the instructions that Riza used to delegate, back when she was a much younger girl who was no less capable in the kitchen. _No, you’re pressing too hard, Mister Mustang. You can’t use so much force, otherwise it’ll just all spill around the edges… Yes, just like that._

Riza came out shortly after while they were in the midst of their little competition. “Just what we need. An objective judge,” Rebecca grinned, beckoning for her to come over. “There. Which ones do you think look better?” 

“... Well, they all look edible,” she stated, and they both laughed. And then, Roy noticed the bandages loosely looped around her palms. 

“Do you need help with that?” Roy asked. Riza didn’t respond, but he knew that she was having an internal debate over whether to ask for assistance from the way she was chewing on her bottom lip. “I can help,” he offered. 

Thankfully, Rebecca was quick to back him up. “Go on,” she supplied. “I’ll get dinner ready for us,” and she turned around in search of utensils, though not before shooting Riza a conspiratorial wink. 

Mustang shook his head. Women. He’d grown up surrounded by them, and he still found himself struggling to comprehend the inner workings of their intricate minds. 

Leading her towards the couch, he sat her down and fixed the loose ends of her dressing as quickly as possible. 

“It seems to be healing well,” Roy noted. “I think the stitches should be ready for removal soon.” At the sight of Riza’s widened eyes, he quickly added, “It’s a very quick and painless procedure, don’t worry. And I think I should be able to arrange for Dr. Reed to come over instead so we don’t have to go back to the hospital. What do you think?” 

Her shoulders sagged visibly in relief. “That… that would be great. Thank you.” 

“It’s alright.” He gave his most charming smile and let his hand linger on hers for a little longer than strictly necessary. “There, all done.” 

At that, Rebecca came around brandishing the offensive piece of literature she’d mentioned earlier once he was finished. “Explain yourself,” she commanded, shoving the book in his face. “What’s this?” 

Beside him, Riza stared thoughtfully, as if she was taking the moment to make a calculated assessment of his character. Mustang chuckled under his breath. Her inherent cynicism of people had probably led her to think that he’d brought her here with some ill design on her virtue. 

“Please, Catalina. Men are visual creatures by nature, and if I was in fact interested in such drivel I would’ve resorted to picking one of those corrupt magazines instead of some poorly-written, second-rate steamy novel,” Roy declared, rolling his eyes at Rebecca’s uncontrollable laughter. “These belong to my sisters, obviously,” he continued. No need to add that he had, at some point as a desperate, fumbling fifteen-year-old, flipped through one of those trashy novels in hopes of finding some way to impress a certain someone. 

(Needless to say, he'd failed. Miserably.) 

Seemingly satisfied by his explanation, Rebecca nodded and winked obnoxiously at Riza, who looked relieved to know that he wasn’t the licentious degenerate that she probably had in mind. “Fine. The jury declares you innocent.” 

Mustang sighed. “Yes, yes. Let’s have dinner before the food gets cold.” 

**~x~**

Dinner was surprisingly pleasant. Any awkward lapses into silence were quickly filled by Rebecca’s endless prattling. Occasionally, Riza would chime in with questions of her own as well, and Roy was more than content to take a break from indulging in his favourite beef stew to answer them. 

At least she didn’t seem so averse to conversation, now. 

“I wanted to ask, actually… what did I work as?” 

Mustang deliberated for a moment, noting Rebecca’s expectant stare. “You were a secretary. Mostly did administrative work.” There. That wasn’t really a lie, was it? A large portion of her time _was_ dedicated to paperwork - whenever she wasn’t out firing guns or putting him in his place, anyway. “But you’ve been…” 

“Laid off for a while,” Rebecca interjected, noting his obvious struggle to relay the news in a tactful manner. “But don’t worry about it. You’ve always been pretty frugal to begin with, so I reckon you should have enough to get by.” Right. She’d probably receive a generous pension sooner or later. “Besides, I’d be happy to just leech off him if I were you. He’s pretty loaded, you know,” she said over a mouthful of rice, waggling her eyebrows at them as she pointed to the stars on the lapels of his military jacket. 

“That… well, that doesn’t sound nice,” Riza remarked, fidgeting awkwardly in her seat. Of course. She’d always been fiercely independent. Almost to the point of it being a fault, actually. Having lost her mother at a young age forced her to mature way beyond her years, especially when left with a sorry excuse of a father who had a tendency to forget he had a child to feed or clothe, much less coddle. And given that she was used to handling everything with her own two hands, accepting help of any kind had always been a grave nolition to her. 

So it was hardly surprising, Roy supposed, that the same self-reliance manifested itself even after she’d lost her memories. 

“It’s fine, Riza,” Roy smiled. “Like I said, it’s no trouble at all. And we’ll figure something out eventually, I’m sure.” 

Flustered by all the attention and assurance, Riza bent down to feed a few slices of beef to Hayate instead, who’d been wagging his tail underneath the table in anticipation for this exact moment. Once she was done with her own meal, she turned to reach for a cupcake wordlessly. 

“How’s it?” Rebecca questioned, brimming with excitement. “That’s the one _I_ decorated, by the way.” 

“... Edible.” 

“Well, that’s high praise, coming from you,” Rebecca snorted. 

Encouraged by Riza’s stamp of approval, Roy picked up one of the sugary confections as well, nodding appreciatively as he swallowed. “Impressive.” 

“Of course. What did you expect?” 

“Raw batter, burnt edges, food poisoning, amongst other things,” he listed. Riza bit back a laugh at his comment. 

“You’re a jerk,” Rebecca said. “One day I’ll open a world-renowned bakery and you’ll be grovelling at my feet, begging for my recipes.” 

“We look forward to that day,” Riza remarked softly, mirth dancing in her eyes. Mustang smiled, secretly pleased that they’d been able to coax her out of her shell - even if only by a fraction. 

Although… he couldn’t deny there was a part of him that felt envious at how simple it’d been for them to rekindle their friendship. How was he, on the other hand, supposed to distill the complexities of their relationship without overwhelming her? _We met when we were young._ That sounded relatively safe. But whatever came afterwards sure as hell did not. _Driven by foolish ambition, I left for the military despite your father’s vocal disapprobation_ sounded like he was setting himself up to step on a landmine. A terribly dangerous topic to broach. So did _then we were reunited at your father’s grave, where you revealed your bare back to me,_ along with _our next reunion was in a decrepit wasteland. In the middle of war._

Nope. Anything about the war was definitely off-limits, Mustang decided. Along with the fact that he’d burnt and defaced her back afterwards. 

Rising to clear the table, he caught sight of Riza’s expression as she patted Hayate and listened absentmindedly to Rebecca’s rambling. Under the dim yellow light, her complexion was still rather sallow, her back rigid as her shoulders tensed, but there was a childlike innocence that lingered in her half-smiles that Roy hadn’t seen in awhile. 

And the epiphany struck him like lightning. 

Maybe… maybe this was a chance for Riza to begin afresh. For her to be spared of all the trauma and agony that had come with knowing him, with following him into hell and beyond. Mustang didn’t necessarily endorse deception; not when she was involved, anyway. The thought of lying to her - even if only by way of concealment - disturbed him greatly, especially since mutual trust and confidence had always been at the core of their relationship. Not to mention he’d already lied to her about her job. (Which was one lie too many, to be honest.)

But ignorance was bliss, was it not? This was a chance for her to restart life on a blank slate; free from the ghosts of her victims. From the inundating weight of the past. And if he could just omit a few select details here and there, distort the truth a little with a couple of white lies… 

Maybe Riza could have a shot at genuine happiness, after all. 

**~x~**

It was strangely awkward now that it was just the both of them left. Without Rebecca’s penchant for incessant chatter, Riza found herself suddenly at a loss. Was this the part where she was supposed to ask how his day at work went?

“Are you okay?” 

Startled, Riza nodded. Then, remembering the conversation of the afternoon and her introspections in the shower, she asked, “Do you have any… photographs? Of us?” 

“I do.” With a wistful smile, Roy plucked out a wrinkled photograph from between the pages of an old journal and gestured towards the couch. 

They settled down together, Hayate lodged peacefully in between the both of them. 

“Can I take a look?” 

“Of course.” 

Gently, he placed the picture in her expectant palm, and Riza let out a soft gasp.

“We - well, we look kind of young here,” said Riza, as she ran a thumb over the creased edges of the photograph. 

“Yeah. We’ve known each other for a long time.” 

And there it was again, the same sorrowful glaze in his eyes. They remained dry, as did his tender smile. But the depths of his eyes reflected an agony; an abject pain that came with experiencing some great mortal tragedy. And compunction soon became an unwelcome companion. It gathered in the corners of her mind, before spilling and nestling between them as she observed him quietly. 

“... How did we meet?” Riza asked at last, breaking the pensive silence that had fallen upon them. 

“I was your father’s apprentice,” he murmured wistfully. 

“Really? What did he teach?” 

“... Alchemy. I was - well, I was always interested in alchemy, but without a proper teacher I was just a fumbling novice. So off I went to the countryside, and that’s where I first met you,” he said, smiling crookedly at a distant memory that she wasn’t privy to. 

“So you’re an alchemist, then?” Riza asked. Hurriedly, she added, “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I just happened to come across the alchemical texts on your shelf -” 

“Don’t worry about it, Riza. Like I said, make yourself at home. And… yes, I am.” Seeming to hesitate for a moment, he then turned the conversation back to her. “Do you have any recollection of anything about alchemy?” 

A strange tingling sensation crept up her spine, but Riza chose to dismiss it. 

“Not really,” she shrugged. 

“That’s alright,” Roy reassured kindly. “Anyway, as I was saying, we met when we were pretty young, and…” 

“Didn’t become fast friends, I’m guessing?” 

“Well, no. It took awhile for the ice to break,” he chuckled, though there was nothing begrudging about his tone. “How did you guess?” 

“Rebecca told me that my first impression of her was that she was a bit... odd. But I think that’s a bit of an understatement,” Riza remarked, still mildly bemused by the girl. At the very least, though, she seemed harmless enough, and Riza couldn’t deny that there was _some_ enjoyment to be had from her company. Amusement, even, although that was usually at Rebecca’s expense more than anything else. 

Roy laughed. “And you’re wondering if the same applies to me?” 

“Maybe.” His forthrightness was strangely comforting. 

“Well... a little, I guess. But we did eventually manage to overcome that barrier,” Roy defended. “Although - it’s hard to pin down the process of befriending someone into specifics, don’t you think?” 

Not much of a storyteller then, unlike Rebecca. But Riza agreed. Besides, it might’ve been easier, in a way, for her to rekindle and mend what was lost without said specifics to pressurise her into remembrance. “I would think so, although Rebecca seems to differ on that point.” 

Roy’s answering laugh was infectious. It was the hearty, vibrant sort of laughter that crinkled his eyes and shook his frame, taking an edge off his obvious fatigue. 

Riza let out a half-smile. 

“How did things go with her, though?”

“Fine,” she answered noncommittally, even as the guilt returned to bite at her hollow mind. “You mentioned something about us meeting in the countryside?”

“I did.” 

“How’d we end up here, then?” 

“After your father passed… We kept in touch. I suppose you could say there were better job prospects out here than in the countryside,” said Roy. There was an edge of apprehension to his voice that she didn’t miss. Still, it sounded like a plausible enough explanation. Riza doubted there was much else in the countryside apart from bleating sheep and forested hillsides, anyway. And maybe her frugality - as Rebecca pointed out - had been born out of poverty more than anything else. 

Which would’ve been an excellent motivator for her to head to the city in search of opportunities beyond farming and childminding, no? 

“I see.” Roy smiled, stifling a yawn. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you up,” Riza muttered. 

“Not at all. I’m glad you asked - anytime, Riza,” he said, and she almost blushed at how sincere he sounded. Roy hadn’t said much - relative to Rebecca, anyway - but she had a feeling that the history between them was a lot deeper than he’d let on. And while her curiosity about her parental lineage (and what of her _mother_?) and his apprenticeship remained somewhat unsatisfied, all the socialising was starting to wear her out. She’d already had enough to think about from the day’s events. Besides, a full-blown interrogation didn’t sound particularly enticing. Inquisitions were probably more of Rebecca’s thing than hers. 

So with nary a shrug, Riza rose and retired to her room with her dog after bidding him a good night. Curling up in bed with Hayate (her personal favourite amongst everyone she’d gotten reacquainted with thus far), Riza closed her eyes and hoped the nightmares would leave her alone for once.

They didn’t. 

Her dream started out pleasant enough. There a younger version of herself stood, surrounded by a field of tulips and poppies. Birds broke into song as trees broke into leaf; a sanctuary of life and regeneration. Above her, ribbon-like tendrils of ivory blended into a soft, gentle blue that spoke of springtime and seemingly everlasting peace. 

But the idyllic bliss did not last. 

Like a spell gone wrong, blades of grass disintegrated into grains of sand to lay the foundation for an apocalyptic wasteland. Trees collapsed into corpses; into bones and dust. Gone were the nightingales and their chirping. Crows cawed a solemn requiem of death in their place instead, as smoke and ash eclipsed the clouds. And all around her was an ablution of blood. An endless deluge of red - vile, vicious red - that swallowed the ground whole and turned the sky a scathing scarlet, and she was falling, sinking, drowning - 

Riza awoke with a start, gasping for breath. _God,_ it’d felt so real. Terrifying. Within the dream was so much malice and grief; it almost made her feel like an irredeemable sinner. 

Her heart raced, head throbbing as she attempted to expel those images out of her mind. It didn't help that it was the sort of dream that conflated one's imagination with reality. She was already struggling to discern between the two on a normal day, and to have to deal with that when she was just trying to get a decent night's rest... 

“Just a meaningless dream,” Riza heaved, cradling her head in her hands. It was probably just another unpleasant side-effect of memory loss that she had to deal with by herself. (Roy didn’t need to see another excessive display of emotion. It was embarrassing, and all the vulnerability tended to make her feel exposed, weak. Overly reliant. And Riza certainly didn’t want to come across as any of those things to someone she was still learning to trust.) 

She could - no, she _would_ \- deal with this alone. Or at least, with her dog.

With that in mind, Riza turned to nuzzle her head against Hayate’s fuzzy one for comfort, forcing herself to ignore Roy’s own laboured breathing from across the thin walls that separated them. 

**~x~**

As it turned out, the long overdue paperwork kept Roy thoroughly occupied all the way until Dr. Reed’s scheduled visit - so much so that he’d almost forgotten about it, until he came waltzing in with a medical bag and an oddly well-rested face two weeks later. Much to his (and Riza’s, no doubt) relief, the entire procedure had gone rather fast. It’d only taken him less than twenty minutes to remove everything, and while Riza’s discomfort was evident throughout the entire procedure from her shuddering exhales and quivering hands, they’d at least managed to avoid triggering another panic attack. 

“You alright?” Roy asked, placing a tentative hand on her back. Heartened by the absence of a violent recoil, he allowed his hand to remain there and gave her a reassuring smile. 

Riza’s only response was a stiff nod. Red mottled her pale cheeks, and her immediate response when their eyes met was to turn away sharply. As much as Roy longed to reassure her that there was nothing to be embarrassed about, he knew that verbalising it would only worsen her chagrin. And so he resigned to standing beside her in silent support instead, allowing her to catch her breath as Dr. Reed stored his medical paraphernalia away. 

“Have your injuries been causing you any discomfort, Miss Hawkeye?” 

“No. I’m fine, thank you,” Riza replied curtly, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Great. Make sure not to pull the medical tape off, and please let me know if there’s any discomfort or numbness,” warned Dr. Reed. “And until further notice, it would be better for you to continue staying here for awhile. You seem to be in pretty good hands, so I wouldn’t worry too much,” he said. 

Wordless, Riza’s eyes remained stubbornly transfixed on the marbled tiles. Roy took this as an opportunity to usher Dr. Reed out. 

“Thanks for coming by, Dr. Reed.” 

“It’s no trouble. How’s everything holding up?” he asked casually. 

“Not too bad, but… none of her memories seem to be returning, still,” said Roy, who hadn’t missed the underlying insinuation. 

“Might take awhile, like I said. We can only hope for the best.” 

“I know. Don’t worry. I’ll let you know if anything crops up,” and Roy thanked him again before shutting the door to brood over his earlier words.

What was the best, even? Was it best for her to remain oblivious to the horrific past, and continue living in perpetual confusion? Or was it best for her to be informed of reality, and live knowing that she’d done both evil and good? 

Riza turned then, catching his lingering stare. Sobering up instantly, Roy returned to her side with a carefully planted garden smile, which he hoped betrayed none of his inner turmoil. 

Growing up surrounded by women who specialised in undercover work and espionage, Roy liked to believe that he was an expert at deception himself. And for the most part, his web of lies often stayed intact. He was good at playing the part, and even better at keeping pretenses up. Skills that all came in very handy where politics, bootlicking and sycophantic obeisance were involved. 

But Riza was also the human incarnation of perception (except where romance was involved). And it felt so wrong to lie to her, of all people. To _her_ , who’d been nothing but honest and genuine despite everything. 

“Everything alright?” 

Cheeks no longer suffused in pink, Riza straightened and rose as if she were standing at attention and nodded again. “I’m fine, really. Thank you for arranging everything,” she said. 

He didn’t probe further. Riza still wasn’t perfectly at ease around him, and Roy knew that it’d most likely be a long time coming before she felt comfortable enough to discuss something as intimate as her fears and feelings. “It’s quite alright. What would you like to have for dinner? We could go out, or I could - uh, try to make something -” 

The corner of her lips twitched imperceptibly. “I could try cooking instead for a change,” Riza offered, flexing her hands to assess their functionality. 

“Is my cooking _that_ bad?” 

Silence. 

Roy coughed, pretending to clear his throat to hide his embarrassment. It was hardly a secret that he wasn’t the best cook around, but Roy liked to think he was capable of whipping up a decent, nourishing meal. 

Even if it mostly consisted of bland potato stews and steamed slices of pork.

“It’s not that bad,” she answered at last. The thinly veiled amusement on her expression made his heart swell with childlike joy. Never mind his mediocre cooking - if Riza was able to tease him for it, surely that must’ve indicated that they’d made good progress. 

Just like how their friendship had originally started out. 

“But Rebecca _did_ say I was a pretty good cook, apparently, so I thought I’d test that theory out. Although…” Riza trailed off, frowning. 

“Need a recipe book?” he guessed. 

“That’d be very helpful, yes.” And so Roy set about digging around for the cookbook that his sisters had gifted him when he’d first moved into his bachelor pad - the one that he’d never bothered to read - while Riza inspected his fridge for ingredients. 

The rest of the evening was spent perusing said cookbook, before they finally settled on a recipe for chicken noodle soup that seemed easy enough. Worried that she might have been trying to downplay the extent of her injuries to escape the doctor’s poking and prodding, Roy made sure to handle the more laborious tasks instead, as she gave instructions and adjusted the seasonings accordingly. 

Needless to say, her innate talent in the culinary arts _still_ superseded his inherent lack of, memory loss notwithstanding. Though, as Roy sipped at his broth he was suddenly stricken by how much this resembled their youth. In those days their biggest worry had been sustenance; ensuring that there was enough for three meals a day. It wasn’t a trivial concern, by any means. And it certainly wasn’t something that a thirteen-year-old girl ought to have been losing sleep over. Yet, in spite of the simple fare, every meal had been incredibly precious. Treasured, like the memories he’d kept hidden in his heart. 

Then the war came and buried their innocence alongside the people they’d killed; smothering their juvenile morals and guileless beliefs in smoke. 

“Is it alright?” Riza asked, noticing that his guzzling had stopped briefly. 

Roy swallowed the uncomfortable, bullet-like lump in his throat along with a spoonful of broth. 

“Very.” 

**~x~**

The weeks after flitted by in a bit of a blur. Mustang was constantly receiving deliveries for stacks of administrivia, to the point that it was slowly growing to become an unconquerable beast. 

Still, working from home proved to be surprisingly productive. Whether it was because of some childish urge to see the flicker of approval across Riza’s face when she sat across him reading in silence, or the fact that she could probably still blow his brains out for skiving off, Roy didn’t know. Either way, he was at least content to work with Riza around him. With Riza alive, awake. 

(And for all his internal grumbling, dealing with paperwork was still much better than staging a coup or fighting actual beasts with fire.) 

Things weren’t quite the same, of course. Where he’d once known her like the back of his hand, Riza was now closer to an indecipherable rune. An intractable riddle. Every inflection, every subtle change in pitch and expression no longer telegraphed her innermost thoughts like they used to. Roy only managed to decode _some_ of them through the little habits and idiosyncrasies of hers that remained, for his questions generated no answers. Nightmares weren’t ever a topic for discussion. They were kept carefully repressed within the confines of their own minds. Most days were spent within their separate rooms - which was fine. Roy knew how much she’d valued her privacy and personal space, and it seemed that was a trait that hadn’t changed much. 

Some days, though, she’d accompany him as he worked in the living room. And while her sudden intrigue in alchemy might have surprised him, Roy managed to keep his expression placid even as he patiently answered her questions about the fundamentals. (Just the fundamentals. Elemental alchemy was strictly off-limits.) 

Occasionally, when Riza was in a sociable mood - about as sociable as she could get, anyway - they’d spend the afternoon together in his kitchen or balcony, indulging in syrup slavered sorbets that he’d gotten from the ice-cream parlor owned by Falman’s new girlfriend as Hayate capered around their feet. Catalina came by every now and then as well, during which Roy usually ended up becoming the guinea pig for their baking experiments. (He counted himself extremely lucky to not have suffered from a single incident of food poisoning thus far.) 

And with all of this came an ever-growing struggle. 

The simple domesticity they shared offered him a glimpse of what could’ve been. What could’ve been theirs, if not for his foolishness that had led to her downfall.

Temptation presented itself everyday, in the form of Riza living in his very home. Something he hadn’t even dared to think about in his wildest dreams. And it only continued to grow exponentially like a fungus; a parasite that was slowly eating at his brains and depriving him of his ability to think rationally. 

Because he knew. Oh, he _knew,_ alright, that Riza wouldn’t hesitate to scream her head off at him or blow his brains out - insubordination be damned - if she knew he’d gone off atoning for _their_ sins alone. For getting his priorities all wrong. _Don’t be stupid, sir. What you need isn’t a wife,_ she’d probably say. _You need someone who will follow you all the way to the very top._

Quite unfortunately for him, the two were mutually exclusive.

Besides, he wasn’t the only one who needed her back as Lieutenant Hawkeye. Everyone else did, too. People were counting on him to help her regain her memories; to rejoin the team and assist in rebuilding an entire city from scratch. And although neither of them had verbalised it aloud, their goals and thoughts had always been aligned. Duty and penance had always preceded their desires. The manila folders sitting on his desk were a bitter reminder of that. A push towards what arguably was the right choice. Towards the straight and narrow, towards their vision of the very top. 

And if he was being a miser about it, Fullmetal still owed him five hundred and twenty cenz. 

That scheming little levanter. 

“Are you alright? You seem... distracted,” Riza commented offhandedly, still immersed in the collection of poems she’d picked up. Spenser’s _Amoretti;_ a book that his own aunt had gifted him herself after that one time he’d gotten utterly drunk and babbled off about how heartbroken he was over the obstructions to asking for Elizabeth’s hand in marriage. 

Roy would have laughed at the irony of it all if it wasn’t the exact thing troubling him right now. 

‘ _My love is like to ice, and I to fire_ ’, indeed.

“I’m alright. Paperwork’s just... boring,” Roy chuckled weakly. 

Riza offered him a sympathetic smile. “The faster you get it over and done with, the better, I think.” 

And if Roy hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought that it was his Lieutenant herself right before his very eyes, returning to rebuke him for even thinking about silly trifles like matrimony and domesticity. 

“You’re right.” 

At least he didn’t have to make a choice. Yet, anyway. It could wait until they’d actually figured out a solution for her to get her memories back. 

Until then, Roy was content to live in the present and enjoy these rare, fleeting moments of bliss with her to the fullest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos/bookmarks/feedback are always deeply appreciated! <3 Please leave a comment if you have the time, I'd love to hear what your thoughts (and you'd totally make a stressed, sleep-deprived student's day and motivate her to keep writing 😆) alternatively, feel free [say hi or drop me an ask on Tumblr (@firewoodfigs)](https://firewoodfigs.tumblr.com) if you're there :) 
> 
> Special thanks to @RainFlame for all her help, without which this chapter would not have been possible <3 thank you so much for all your invaluable feedback and encouragement, friend. You're amazing and I love you 🥺 (and I'll get around to writing that Ling-in-a-cowboy-hat crackfic for you very soon) 
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> I'm back!! Sorry this took a bit longer than usual - the past weeks have been pretty tough for me as I struggled with insomnia and an increasingly heavy workload, amongst other personal stuff. I hope things have been alright for everyone here, though! Stay safe and take care out there, everyone 💕
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> -
> 
> For reference, the poem is taken from Edmund Spenser’s 1590s sonnet sequence Amoretti, "My Love is Like to Ice, and I to Fire". I thought it fitting because Roy is the Flame Alchemist, after all (LOL me and my bad puns) and between the two of them he strikes me as the one who struggles more with curbing his passion and affection. 
> 
> More relationship-building here, but I promise we'll get to the action really soon!! I hope it didn't come across as boring or anything. I wanted to rebuild Riza's personality and her relationship with Roy, and also explore Roy's internal struggles a little more. Feedback is always welcome! <3


	7. Chapter 7

_“The life of the dead is placed on the memories of the living. The love you gave in life keeps people alive beyond their time. Anyone who was given love will always live on in another's heart.” ― Marcus Tullius Cicero_

**~x~**

The world tends to work in disturbingly organised patterns, discernible to those who look hard enough through the motley of paradoxes and emotions around them. Peace often precedes turmoil, the same way undulating country lanes are made up of valleys and mountains. Ups and downs that correspond to the good and bad; to the best and worst of times. In some ways, therefore, life operates in an almost cyclical manner. Maybe it’s to ensure that peace doesn’t go undervalued or unappreciated when it comes.

Before it goes.

“Hello?” Mustang said, cradling the receiver in between his shoulder and neck while he rubbed his hands dry with the hem of his shirt. As he waited for a response, he mouthed a quick apology to Riza, who simply feigned ignorance and returned to doing the dishes with her usual brand of quiet efficiency. 

“Good evening, sir. Uh…” Fuery trailed off, hesitating.

“Speak. What’s the matter?”

“We’ve received reports of suspicious activity at Regent Street, down by the river… There seems to be some correlation to alchemy, but I can’t be too sure. Major Armstrong is out of town at the moment, so I thought we’d inform you instead, sir,” Fuery explained. 

Mustang frowned, glancing at Riza’s back discreetly before consulting the clock. It was almost ten in the evening; her usual designated time for retreating back into her room. Still, the thought of leaving her alone unnerved him. Never mind that he’d already installed a burglar-proof lock, but suppose this was a trap, and there was an intruder of some sort-?

_You’re being paranoid, sir._

“Alright. I’ll be there in a bit,” and Mustang hung up, calculating. Regent Street… It was near where Tucker used to live. He could get there in about half an hour. (Or fifteen minutes, if he turned a blind eye to the overly-restrictive speed limits.)

Hayate knelt beside him, whimpering and pawing at the hem of his pants.

Mustang sighed. Sometimes he wished the canine wasn’t so perceptive all the time. But it was a natural consequence of living with and being trained by a master of perception herself, he supposed.

“Is everything alright?”

Case in point.

“Yeah,” he reassured.

Having already cleared the sink of any unclean crockery, Riza turned to give him an inquiring look. “Are you sure? You sounded a little… distressed.”

“Just a little,” he said, smiling crookedly. Riza remained unconvinced. “It’s just… well, duty calls.”

“Oh. You should go, then,” she said, a questioning lilt to her voice.

Roy hesitated, not knowing what to say.

Something seemed to click in her mind then, as she leaned against the table and sighed. “Roy,” Riza began, oddly calm. “I don’t need to be kept under constant supervision, you know.”

Despite her composure, the irritation and confusion brewing underneath were apparent from the way she held his gaze directly, almost challengingly. Roy grimaced. She had a point. Hawkeye was known for her spectacular marksmanship, after all.

 _Was_ , being the operative word.

Oh, she wasn’t a damsel in distress who needed rescuing, by any means (as a matter of fact, she’d done most of the saving in the past). But did _she_ even remember how to hold a gun, much less shoot? Fire at an incoming enemy with lethal precision like she always did - no, like she used to? Or was all that talk about muscle memory simply an old wives’ tale?

“I know. It’s just…”

“Just what?” Riza prompted, arching an eyebrow.

Roy swallowed thickly. Nothing plausible came to mind. He scratched at his tousled hair, struggling to think of an explanation until his doorbell rang.

“Hang on, I’ll get it,” he said, grateful for the timely interruption. And there stood a somewhat frazzled-looking Catalina, a smarmy grin stuck on her delicate features despite her exhausted heaving. Sweat trickled down her face in thick, restless rivulets, and her usually immaculate ponytail had mostly come unravelled by this point. A bit like overcooked spaghetti, he thought.

“Did you just run a marathon or something?” Mustang asked, equally awed and startled by her sudden appearance.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Rebecca panted. In a hushed tone that was quite unlike her rackety self, she continued, “Stuff blew up, apparently. And your elevator wasn’t working, so I ran all the way up here, because I’m not leaving my best friend alone while you go do what you have to do. Don’t think you can shirk your responsibilities out there… _sir_.”

Though he was hardly religious in any sense of the word, Mustang was suddenly inclined to believe she was a godsend of sorts. An answered prayer, maybe. For never had Catalina resembled an angel more than she did at that moment.

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Feel free to give me unrestricted access to your bank account as a token of appreciation,” she harrumphed, before flouncing over to Riza’s side like an excited puppy.

“What are you doing here?” Riza asked, evidently confused by the sudden turn of events.

“I happened to be around the area, but my date’s busy,” Rebecca pouted, giving Riza a beseeching look that rivalled Hayate’s when he was starved for affection and a massive treat (that wasn’t necessarily deserved). “So I decided to come by with ice-cream and wallow in self-pity. Misery loves company, you know?”

“With me, no less,” Riza commented drily, finding the entire arrangement wholly suspect.

Mustang shot her an apologetic glance, but she simply brushed it off with a dismissive wave.

Rebecca had the decency to at least look somewhat embarrassed, though not really. “Of course. I mean, I _hope_ I’m not bothering,” she said disingenuously. “I know it’s late, but you know what they say. The night is still young.”

“Alright,” she sighed, gesturing towards the couch. Rebecca cheered gracelessly as she made herself comfortable. Finally at ease, Mustang got ready to leave.

Exasperation and concern wrought against each other for dominance, but it seemed the latter eventually won over as Riza followed him towards the doorstep.

“You’re very... paranoid,” she stated candidly.

“I’m sorry,” he grimaced, smoothening away the creases in his uniform, crumpled from disuse and a habitual lack of ironing. “I wasn’t expecting her to come, honestly. None of this was planned or premeditated -”

“It’s alright. She’s not bad company, but… you don’t have to take the doctor’s orders _literally_ , you know,” she interjected, though not brusquely. Whatever sourness that had presented itself earlier seemed to have dissipated somewhat, and he was grateful at least that his concern hadn’t rubbed her the wrong way. Maybe some part of her subconscious understood; she’d always been the designated worrier, after all. The stalwart bodyguard. His protector.

But the roles were reciprocal, too. And Roy was not going to even risk a chance of her getting harmed in any way this time.

Not after he’d failed her so miserably months ago underground.

“I know. I just… well, I received some bad news over the phone, and I guess I just got worried.”

Riza nodded quietly, understanding. “Well, you should go, then. It seems urgent. We’ll be fine,” she reassured. Then, as an afterthought, she added, “As a matter of fact, you should be worrying about _yourself_ instead. Be careful out there.”

His heart warmed, touched by her concern. Or maybe it was more out of courtesy than anything else, but he was grateful all the same.

“I will. Thank you,” and then he left. But it still felt wrong, leaving without her. Working without her. Roy couldn’t help feeling strangely amiss, empty; as if he’d left something important behind. (This was the first time he had to delve into investigations without his most trusted aide by his side, after all.)

And without her usual chivvying to abide by traffic regulations, Roy ended up going over twice the speed limit.

**~x~**

The first thing Mustang noticed were the ten soldiers resting by a pile of rubble, bleeding and in obvious agony even as the medics diligently tended to their injuries. They weren’t too severe, from what he could tell. Still, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. Frustrated. They’d barely finished reconstructing Central after the Promised Day, but already their plans were being thwarted. It made him wonder how much more the country had to endure before things could get better and go uphill.

As it presently stood, however, the only thing that seemed to be going uphill was the task of rebuilding itself.

The civilians weren’t faring well, either. Their morale was low, their faith in the government dimming like the faulty street lamps overhead. Though the affected area had been cordoned off, with soldiers reassuring them that everything was _fine_ and under control (a blatant lie, Mustang thought), their questions and attempts at interference were relentless. Driven by paranoia, people surrounded the smattering of glass and bricks and blood, hands clasped as their eyes brimmed with terror.Children wailed into their mother’s skirts and adults gossiped, thrusting accusatory fingers around freely — all instinctive impulses to being afraid of the unknown.

And truthfully, for all of his deceptive calm, he could empathise.

Because Mustang was worried, too. Fearful. He was fearful of another imminent calamity, of another widespread disaster that would dismantle and destroy whatever little serenity the citizens now enjoyed.

One could only hope that this wasn’t the inception of another nationwide transmutation circle, or something similar. Maybe something worse.

Hopefully not.

“Sir,” the military police flanking the alleyways saluted, arms like weary rags.Mustang felt something like sympathy swell within his chest. (Sudden night shifts were the worst _._ )

“At ease,” he said, waving dismissively before he bent under the flimsy tape carefully. Regaining his balance was a bit of a challenge as the ground beneath him was mostly debris and uneven concrete, but he managed.

“Sir,” called the rest of the unit gathered around what was presumably an alchemical array.

The dim, nondescript back alley (or what remained of it, anyway) was rioting with weeds. Thorns and thistles sprouted out from every nook and cranny in a steady continuum beside a fuzz of miserly grass despite the spring air, deterring ordinary folk from exploring the path.

A great location for insidious activity.

Breda stifled a yawn and gestured to the ground. “All yours, boss.”

“Status report.”

“There was a small explosion in the vicinity, but none of the witnesses have reported any potential culprits,” Fuery reported.

Mustang nodded. Bending down on one knee carefully so as to avoid the debris, he began to scrutinise the array while Falman shone a torch above his head.

The array was scribbled out in a white, powdery-like substance. Chalk? Cocaine? He couldn’t be too sure. Regrettably, some of the key inscriptions had been destroyed by the indented surface, although he could still make out the emblems of life and death. A faded, hook-like symbol cut across the triangles; like a thin thread holding the missing pieces of a puzzle together.

Mustang grimaced, thinking long and hard.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he was sure he’d seen a part of this before. Hadn’t he? Either way, it wasn’t really helpful. Bio-alchemy wasn’t his province. It was rarely specialised in as an area of alchemy to begin with; the only expert he’d known in Central turned out to be a deranged, morally reprehensible lunatic who was nowhere as impressive as his falsified reports made him out to be.

But there was one person he knew who’d gleaned enough from his personal collection.

Fullmetal.

Sorely disinclined as he was to recruit his help again, the kid was at least a reliable aide. (Not that he’d ever admit that aloud, of course.)

Even if he made him age prematurely from all the havoc he wreaked around town.

“I need to make a call,” Mustang said lowly.

Dusting his hands, he rose and slipped on his gloves once he’d committed whatever remained of the array into his memory.

Then he snapped.

Flintstone and marble blackened, melding into the darkness as the paltry patches of thorny grass and white powder were consumed by fire. The torch that Falman had been shining earlier went off at last.

“Let me know if anything else crops up. In the meantime, stay safe. _All_ of you,” Mustang ordered sternly.

He really couldn’t afford to lose any more of his subordinates.

“We will. Be safe too, sir,” Falman answered, saluting.

Satisfied, Mustang nodded and crossed the sea of busybodies to return to his car. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he began to mull over his next course of action. Though Grumman had begun the process of weeding out potential renegades, one could never be too cautious where politics and the military were involved. The incident with General Raven had taught him that full well.

So no, he wasn’t going to return to the office to make a call. And Riza might not have been an eavesdropper in any sense of the word, but it was better if she didn’t have to concern herself with these affairs for the time being.

Which left him with one option. One that wasn’t particularly pleasant (he’d developed an immense dislike of public phone booths after a certain incident), but probably necessary.

With that in mind, Mustang drove off to the nearest phone booth. Once he’d established that there was no one, nothing, lurking around, he quickly keyed in the numbers to an automail repair shop far away in the countryside. 

“Hello?” came a high-pitched, unmistakably feminine voice from the other end. Probably Fullmetal’s rumoured girlfriend. Childhood friend, whatever. Despite the untimeliness of his call, however, her tone was strangely energetic.

And suddenly Mustang was reminded of Hughes, whose cheery mood was never dampened even by the ungodliest of hours.

But he brushed that thought away as quickly as it came, swallowing the lump in his throat to put on his most charming tone. “Hello, Miss Rockbell. It’s me, Brigadier General Mustang. Could I trouble you to put Edward on the line, please?”

“Oh, sure! Of course!” she chimed, before proceeding to yell for him. Mustang cringed at the sudden change in tone, but was otherwise stricken by how polite she’d sounded over the phone.

Pity. Fullmetal hadn’t picked up on her good manners despite their obvious closeness to each other.

“Hello?” he grunted drowsily. “What the hell are you calling me for at this ungodly hour, bastard --”

“Fullmetal,” Mustang interjected.

“What?”

“Get on the first train to Central tomorrow morning.”

“What? Why?” Ed screeched, evidently roused from his slumber by rage.

“I’ll explain when you arrive. Consider it an order.”

“You can’t just order me around like that, jerk! Who do you think you are, I’m not even military anymore -”

“See you soon,” Mustang said, hanging up before Edward could launch into another one of his unnecessarily verbose ramblings on why the military sucked.

Mustang simply smirked.

He’d come. Ed’s natural curiosity made the outcome inevitable.

All he had to do now was wait for his arrival.

**~x~**

True to his predictions, the golden-haired runt bludgeoned his way into the office a few days later with a heavy scowl, a string of profanities and a blatant disregard for formalities.

Then again, Mustang supposed this ought not to have been surprising in the least. Decorum had never quite been his thing, after all.Even at military events where it was supposedly a requirement.

“Hello to you too, Fullmetal,” Mustang greeted. Technically he wasn’t military anymore, but it was still fun to boss him around all the same.

The others rose and greeted him with a half-salute - even Havoc, despite his exhaustion from trudging up the stairs of Central Command. The only exception was Major Armstrong, who looked like he was about to either break into tears of joy or smother him to death.

He ended up doing both.

“Stop that,” Ed squawked, wrenching himself out of his suffocating grip. Despite his vehement protests against any form of tactile affection, though, his ear-splitting grin made it clear that he was just as excited at the reunion as the rest of the team was.

But delight evaporated into displeasure as soon as he whirled back to face Mustang.

The inexorable object of his wrath.

“Don’t tell me you asked me to come here just for tea, Colonel Bastard.” 

“Of course not. Would I do such a thing?”

“Yes.”

“You think too lowly of me, Edward.” It still felt strange addressing him by his actual name, rather than his State-given title. (Maybe it was because doing the former would solidify the strange sense of _concern_ that they had for each other.) “I can assure you I have no business asking you for tea. As a matter of fact, _you_ would be the last person on my list.” Mustang smirked, gesturing to the seat in front of him. “Take a seat. Is the door locked?”

“Yes, boss,” Breda affirmed. 

“Good,” he said, silencing another one of Edward’s incoming protests with an outstretched hand. “The doors might be soundproof, but I’m not going to take any chances. I know you’re not quite used to speaking _softly_ -”

“I can be quiet when I need to be, jerk,” huffed Ed, in a considerably softer volume this time as he settled into his seat. Mustang‘s smirk widened. Reverse psychology always seemed to work wonders where Ed was concerned. “So, what’s it this time? Homunculi? Enemies lurking in the military, again?”

“No. Or at least, hopefully not. But we happened to come across this a few days earlier,” Mustang scribbled what was left of the array onto a piece of rough paper, and shoved it towards Ed. “Quite unfortunately, _we_ need your help in deciphering what this means. It’s incomplete, though.”

“Unfortunately,” Ed snorted, though he’d already begun scrutinising the array laid out in front of him, brows furrowed in concentration. “Isn’t this… bio-alchemy?” he asked, tracing a finger - callused from manual labour, Mustang noted - across the insignias of life and death.

“Exactly.” Mustang grimaced. There really was no tactful way of going about it. Edward wasn’t one for beating around the bush, anyway. “And the only person in Central specialising in bio-alchemy is now dead…”

“And was the same alchemist I’d lived with for weeks,” finished Ed, expression darkening considerably. 

“... Yes."

Guilt, despair, then anger flashed successively in Ed’s molten-gold eyes. Signs of a soul still aching, tormented by a past tragedy that remained fresh like an untreated wound. And immediately Mustang felt something akin to remorse clutching at his chest.

In the course of focusing on making amends towards a global community, he hadn’tbothered pausing to mourn for the death of a girl he barely knew. Such was the nature of politics: its players tend to forget that individuals exist separately within the world they seek to improve. The outlines of each single person generally blurs after some time; silhouettes merging into a world larger than oneself. (It was the same for alchemy. One is all, all is one.) And Roy thought he’d become desensitised to tragedy, then. That his aspirations had bred a callousness in the name of efficiency.

Because if he paused in his tracks to grieve for every single death he encountered, he’d never get anything done. The only thing he could do was to keep moving forward. Keep his eyes ahead and focus on atoning for his sins.

But when Hughes died (and when Riza herself nearly did), Roy learnt that he hadn’t been entirely desensitised, after all. Death still stung raw. No massacre; no prior loss could have prepared him for the grief he experienced at losing someone he wouldn’t have hesitated to die for.

Although... now that he was actually thinking about it, maybe the real reason why he had refused to dwell on it back then was because it reminded him of _himself_. Wasn’t he being a bit of a hypocrite, considering he’d immolated children during the war as well? Helpless, defenseless children, who couldn’t even lift a finger to save themselves -

“Are you listening?”

Mustang blinked, eyes focusing on Ed once more. “Sorry. Go on.”

Ed looked mildly taken aback, as if he’d been expecting some sort of immediate diatribe instead of a quiet, resigned apology. Softening a little, he continued, “As I was saying earlier, the hook here operates like a merger of sorts. It’s the same thing I drew in the centre of Al’s old blood rune, to bind his soul to armor.”

Strange. If it was supposed to serve a soul-binding function, why was it engraved on the floor then? There hadn’t been any suits of armor lying around the scene.

Maybe they’d all walked off.

“What do the other symbols mean, then? Have you come across anything similar in Tucker’s library?”

“... Not that I can remember,” Ed said, face contorting in disgust. “As it currently stands, the closest thing it resembles is a blood rune. A poorly constructed one, if you ask me.”

Not of much help, then. But… “Blood?”

“Yeah. The iron in the blood will interact with the metal it is on. Or whatever surface it’s on, so that the object and blood rune can form a symbiosis.” 

Mustang nodded contemplatively, then asked, “But the array wasn’t drawn in blood. So wouldn’t that render the symbiosis inoperable?” 

“Probably.” 

A rune that wasn’t meant for its intended purpose, then. And an explosion that was equally arbitrary as it was deliberate - set off in an unfrequented alley, but still in a location capable of garnering a sizeable crowd -

Damn it.

“A decoy,” Mustang muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“It’s a decoy,” he repeated, louder this time so that the rest could hear. “Clearly an alchemist wouldn’t have any reason to be drawing inoperable runes around Central for fun.”

Ed’s face brightened considerably, notwithstanding the severity of the situation and the multiple grimaces around him. “Seems like _we’re_ in for some fun, then.”

Mustang rolled his eyes skyward. Ed made it sound as if they were gathered for a treasure hunt. It was almost as if the sweet monotony of the country had ripped whatever little sense of sanity and self-preservation he had to shreds.

“Fun, sure. I never said you could join us for investigations, though -”

“Why not?”

“You aren’t military anymore, like you said. And if I’m being brutally honest here, you’re kind of useless without your alchemy, no?”

Ed’s response was a petulant scowl, though Mustang could already see the expletives written all across his features.

As if on cue, though, a knock resounded. Immediately Mustang burnt the array that he’d sketched earlier before pretending to be engrossed in his paperwork, maintaining the facade that this was but one of those sad, typical nights of working overtime.

Ed, on the other hand, reclined on his seat and rested his legs leisurely on Mustang’s table with an unapologetic grin.

“Come in,” Mustang called, doing his best impression of a bored, tired worker. This wasn’t a challenge in itself, considering it was pretty much how he felt on a daily basis.

“Sir,” panted the shrimpy, dark-haired intruder in oversized glasses, stubbly face as white as a sheet. Mustang made sure to stretch languidly as he yawned for added effect. “So-sorry to bother, sir.”

“What’s the matter?”

“We have a lead, sir,” he huffed, still struggling to catch his breath.

Ed straightened, enthusiasm sparked by the prospect of _fun_.

Trouble, more like.

“Report.”

“A few of the military police on patrol came across s-something,” he stuttered. His discomfort and inexperience were evident from his hands, knitting and twisting together like gnarled roots. Almost as if he’d just encountered a living corpse in the flesh.

Or something, like he’d said.

So Mustang decided to spare him the horrors of having to articulate the nitty-gritties. Really, it was obvious he was fresh blood. Probably a newly recruited soldier after the events of the Promised Day when they were lacking in numbers.

“It’s fine. Just tell me _where_ ,” he emphasised, nudging Ed with an eraser to the arm.

Ed bristled, but otherwise got the hint. He hid his grin behind an open palm to keep up his pathetic attempt at disinterest.

“It’s… uh, it’s near where Central Prison used to be, sir.”

Mustang groaned inwardly. “Alright. And is anyone else still on patrol around that area?”

“A few, sir.”

“Well, luck’s on your side. My team and I can handle this ourselves,” Mustang drawled, waving indolently to dismiss him.

Mortification dissolved into immense gratitude, as if someone had just told him the answers to all of life’s problems. “T-thank you, sir.” 

“Sure,” and he’d scurried out even before Mustang could say anything else.

Once the door was tightly bolted, all eyes returned to him, intent and focused. Waiting for orders.

All except Ed. His cat-like grin just screamed outright defiance. 

Mustang sighed, for what must have been the umpteenth time that day since his dramatic entrance. Maybe asking Ed for assistance wasn’t the best course of action. Or maybe he was just prone to making poor life choices, especially when Hawkeye was no longer around to keep him in check. “Listen, Edward. You’ll just be deadweight —“

“Who are you calling deadweight, you bastard -”

“You can’t even use alchemy anymore,” Mustang pointed out. Not to mention the fact that he was no longer covered by military insurance.

Definitely not a good thing for someone so prone to injury.

“I’m not useless without it, you know. I’m still pretty darn good at hand-to-hand combat.”

Around him, the expressions ranged from worry (Fuery and Armstrong, the self-appointed brotherly and paternal figures of the incorrigible nitwit), to resignation (Falman, who had dealt enough with him up North to know that dissuasion was an impossible task), and near-approval (Breda and Havoc, who were typically the resident enablers of terrible ideas).

“Really?” Mustang said, thoroughly unconvinced himself.

“ _Really_ ,” Edward repeated, eyebrows twitching in tandem with his antenna. “Wanna try? Bet I can still pummel you into a pulp -“

“We don’t have time for another one of those matches. And as I recalled, the last time we had such a duel, _I_ won.”

Ed’s face instantly twisted into a sullen glower, like a child denied candy. “We haven’t got all day, either. Stop holding us back with your arrogance and need to show off, Colonel Bastard.” 

Mustang put his hands to his face in a gesture of irritated resignation. There really was no way of dissuading an immovable rock, was there? Quite unfortunately for him, the kid’s stubbornness rivaled Riza’s. And Mustang couldn’t help but question the company he kept. Was it really necessary for all of his subordinates to be so unyieldingly pig-headed? And what did that say of his leadership? Maybe General Armstrong’s approach was preferable to his. He’d heard rumours of how _she_ had managed to keep Edward tightly wound around her pinky, even if it meant resorting to rather… gruelling methods that sounded awfully intimidating. Even to him.

“Fine. Don’t be a liability,” he grumbled at last.

Ed only beamed, disgustingly smug and triumphant.

**~x~**

The entourage was split into two cars: Mustang drove Edward while the rest, save for Havoc, rode with Major Armstrong.

“Why am I stuck with _you_ alone, anyway?” Ed complained, with a frigid contempt that masked the strange sort of respect rivals had for one another.

“Because I know you haven’t asked the things that you’re really dying to ask,” Mustang said, pretending to keep his eyes on the road, when really he was gauging Ed’s reactions. A sharp exhale, followed by a clenched jaw. Fists curled around his pants, almost forceful enough to break through the tacky, leathery material. “You can ask, if you want.”

A pause.

“... What happened to the Lieutenant?”

Mustang’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “She’s been discharged.”

Ed looked like he was about to throw a punch at his rearview mirror.

“ _Why_?” he barked.

“Truth took her memory away,” Mustang said through gritted teeth, hands shaking just the slightest.

It’d been weeks. Months, maybe. Mustang thought he would’ve grown accustomed to the fact by now.But articulating it still shook him to his core every time, like the aftermath of a devastating earthquake. Maybe it was because vocalising it reinforced the reality of it all. That this, _this_ was the new norm. Leaving without her, driving without her, working without her.

Forgotten by her.

Ed went uncharacteristically silent. And for a moment, Mustang regretted his decision. Should he have relayed the message in a more tactful manner? Maybe. But there was no other way of going about it, was there? Ed would probably misconstrue it as an attempt at coddling or patronising. The last time he’d tried to be judicious about tragedy... well, it hadn’t turned out _well_.

Tact was a rather unhelpful thing whenever Ed was involved.

“... Well?” Mustang said, discomfited by his passenger’s unusual lack of swearing.

“Truth is an asshole.” And there it was. Crude as it was, Mustang was mildly relieved to hear that instead of silence. “I should’ve maimed him when I had the chance.”

“At least we’re in agreement about something.”

A bunch of swear words - some incomprehensible, others so creative he’d only heard Havoc and his aunt use while they were hopelessly drunk - continued to erupt from Ed’s mouth; his known method of processing anger and grief.

Mustang waited for him to finish, driving at a relatively acceptable speed in the meantime.

“How… how is she, then?” he asked, once he was finally done curbing a fraction of his rage.

“She’s… better.” Mustang hesitated. How much did he need to know? As immature as Ed could be, he could be the complete opposite, too. When he wanted to be. Which was rare, but worth a shot. “She’s staying with me for now.”

“With _you_?” Ed screeched disbelievingly. 

Mustang braked just in time, avoiding a red light _and_ a collision all at once. A car horn blared. Someone behind cursed his good name, calling for his early demise to make the roads a safer place.

How nice.

“Problem, Fullmetal?”

“Yeah, you’re driving, for one,” he muttered. “I’m just surprised that the Lieutenant’s alright with living with a conceited jerk like you, is all.”

Ed’s jibe was strangely half-hearted this time, as if the gravity of the situation had siphoned out whatever compassion he’d kept so desperately hidden whenever they were around each other.

Mustang scoffed. “Speak for yourself. I’m surprised your girlfriend’s managed to put up with your crap for so long.”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” Ed sputtered wildly, bemused. Color rose to his cheeks, explicitly proclaiming the torch he held for the blonde.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Whatever,” Ed mumbled, looking away fixedly as he scrambled for a diversion to salvage whatever remained of his dignity.

Mustang decided to give him a hand.

“You can visit her, if you want.” Ed looked at him as if he’d just sprouted a pair of wings. Mustang rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m inviting you to my place.” It would be a more convenient place to discuss more sensitive matters, too.

Like how to get Riza’s memory back.

“... Sure, I guess. Where?”

The car slowed down before coming to an eventual halt.

“Wait, eyes on the _road_ ,” Ed yelled, alarmed.

“It’s a red light, idiot.”

Whipping out a piece of scrap paper from his coat pocket, Mustang quickly scribbled down his address and personal line before shoving the paper into Ed’s open palm.

“I didn’t know you stopped at red lights.”

“I do. Sometimes,” Mustang smirked, then stepped on the pedal to whizz past the traffic light. 

It was still red.

**~x~**

“Sir,” greeted the two military policemen who had the misfortune of having to stand guard at their destination.

The clouds of the evening sky were the gray of rats, and the air was not damp, but dank. And while the young men — one a sandy blonde who reminded him of a younger (and uglier) version of Havoc; the other a gangly brunette who sported a buzzcut and a badly-shaped mustache that reminded Mustang of a wriggly worm — were standing rigidly at attention, their breathing was laboured, as if the clammy air had strangled them, draining them of their valor and colour. 

“Dismissed.”

At his behest, the duo scampered off with their tails between their legs.

Ed, on the other hand, looked ready to barge in with all the subtlety of an elephant.

“What are you waiting for? Let’s go.”

Mustang sighed, wishing he'd dumped Ed by the roadside earlier. That would’ve solved his current dilemma rather effectively, no?

“Sure you don’t want to just wait outside, Fullmetal?”

“Don’t be dumb. You need my help to decipher whatever’s going on in there,” Ed retorted, arms stubbornly folded across his chest. “Besides, like I said - I’m still pretty proficient in combat. Teacher trained us to not be over-reliant on alchemy, so I’m not entirely useless. Unlike you in the rain.”

Forget trying to be considerate, he thought. Ed could die for all he cared.

“Fine. But save your own ass,” Mustang grumbled, irked by the jab. Though a part of him wanted to remind Ed to stay close to him, he knew that this would only have the opposite effect.

So he didn’t.

Ed only grinned fearlessly, shrugging with all the confidence of an alleged nationwide hero who’d punched a self-proclaimed god in the face.

“Major Armstrong, stand guard outside with the rest outside,” Mustang ordered. Half a dozen people sounded like it’d be too much for such a cramped, crummy room, and attracting unwanted attention was the last thing on his wishlist. “And if anything happens, run.”

No answer.

“That’s an order,” Mustang added.

“We’ll be alright, sir. Stay safe in there,” Fuery reassured. 

Mustang sighed, knowing that arguing with them was pointless. Better to just get it over and done with.

“Alright. Let’s go,” and Ed had already stormed in through the frail door before he could say anything else, the uneven weight of his legs jostling the creaky floor. 

The sharp stench of decay hit him as soon as they entered: the smell of rotting flesh - a smell burnt in his memory - and the signs of a horrible experiment gone wrong. His stomach churned. Now he had a vague understanding of why the guards earlier looked as if their oxygen supply had been cut short.

It was almost as if someone had mistaken this for a lavatory instead of a laboratory.

Ignoring the bile in his own throat, Mustang trudged deeper into the shadowed room, his disgust almost as strong as curiosity.

Whatever little light source there was came from the tiny, half-filled tubes of sinister red on the destroyed workbench. It looked like it’d been a rather shoddy workspace, but everything else around him was relatively mundane - or so he tried to convince himself. A cage of dead rats. Pieces of ripped parchment strewn around on the table like confetti. One partially dissected monkey that was no longer breathing. Its rotten, shriveled paw, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a human hand, had slipped off its tray to point at the floor. It reminded him of another place, out in the desert, where it had been human corpses lining the tables and walls --

Mustang shoved that thought down forcibly before the image could fully manifest itself. Searching for a distraction, he turned to check on Ed instead, who looked rather sickly.

Very much like he’d just had a severe case of food poisoning.

“Are you alright?”

“Of course,” Ed grunted defensively, even as his nose wrinkled and twisted like Hayate’s whenever he caught a whiff of spoiled leftovers.

“You look kind of green.”

“... How green?”

“Greener than a salad bar,” he confirmed.

“So do you. It’s just… gross. Smells like shit in here.”

Mustang nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly. But talking meant they’d lose more oxygen in the process, and neither of them were quite keen on inhaling anything at the moment, except what was necessary for survival. And so they continued their exploration in silence, making a concerted effort to not stare at the rotting carcasses.

(On the bright side, at least none of the animals were talking. Yet, anyway.)

“Keep close,” Mustang whispered, inching closer towards the glowing tubes. “What’s that?”

“Dunno. This reminds me a little of Tucker’s study,” Ed muttered, his voice taking on a considerably darker edge.

Biting back an apology, Mustang reached out to pick up the tube with his free hand for closer inspection. It would’ve been pretty under any other circumstance, what with the way it glowed like neon lights in the dark. A Philosopher’s Stone? It couldn’t be. They would’ve sensed its unmistakable energy if it was indeed one. Maybe it was a poorly crafted fake. Or blood, perhaps. _That_ would certainly explain all the corpses and carcasses, but he’d never known blood to be phosphorescent in nature.

Mustang frowned and left it back where it belonged.

“Wait,” Ed called.

Mustang turned his head to see Ed picking through the pile of torn paper on the table, arranging them together like a child’s puzzle. Slowly, as they came together one by one, Mustang began to see the similarities to the one that he’d seen a few days ago. But there was an inscription below that hadn’t previously been there. A series of numbers, accompanied by a poem of sorts which reminded him of the ones inked across Riza’s back.

It read, in bright red: 

_H.S.E_

_..._

_Multās per gentēs et multa per aequora vectus 23  
adveniō hās miserās, uxorem, ad īnferiās, 16  
ut tē postrēmō dōnārem mūnere mortis 35  
et mūtam nequīquam alloquerer cinerem 31  
quandōquidem fortūna mihi tētē abstulit ipsum 12  
heu miser indignē uxorem adempte mihi 23  
nunc tamen intereā haec, 20  
prīscō quae mōre parentum 26  
trādita sunt tristī mūnere ad īnferiās, 25  
accipe uxorem multum mānantia flētū. 20  
Atque in perpetuum, uxorem, avē atque valē. 30_

_..._

_memento mori_

“What’s all this stuff mean? Aerugean or something?” Ed frowned, reciting the words to himself unintelligibly.

“I’m not... entirely sure.” Mustang himself only knew for sure what the last two words meant. _Remember you must die_. Riza had said this to him before, shortly after the war. It was her curt, morbid way of motivating them towards their goal, detracting him from supposed distractions. A mantra for the cultivation of detachment from their earthly desires, perhaps. But under these circumstances it was probably intended to incite fear and provoke confusion more than anything else.

(Suddenly he found himself wishing that Riza was here. She’d always had a natural affinity for languages, after all.)

Clearing his throat softly, he brought himself back to the present task at hand and ignored the wistfulness creeping into his heart.

“Anything else?”

“Nope, that’s about it. It’s like playing bloody tangram or something,” Ed grunted, having already pieced all the withered scraps together. With their bad luck, the array was as incomplete as it’d initially been.

Still indecipherable.

“Damn it,” Mustang cursed, mussing his hair up vexedly.

What was the point of this, then? An abandoned experiment? It couldn’t be. Alchemists weren’t typically so careless, so _stupid_ as to leave alchemical arrays lying around for nosy strangers to magically stumble upon.

Or maybe it had all been a deliberate set-up. And was it just him, or was the red fluid a little bit brighter than it was?

“Ed…”

“I see it.”

They watched for a moment more, until Mustang was certain he wasn’t just seeing things.

Then it flared, like a star about to burst.

“Watch out,” Mustang barked, pulling Ed out of harm’s way just in time.

The tube exploded with a sickening crack. Mustang raised an arm in defence, shards and splinters shredding the air like bullets and slicing through cloth and flesh alike.

Mustang winced, warm blood trickling down his arm. He looked to Ed, relieved that the boy was unscathed, but a loud rumble sapped any momentary relief he might’ve felt.

Without warning, the shoddy latticework of wood above them began to tremble violently. An eldritch screech cleaved the air, like a predator about to pounce.

They’d waltzed right into the lion’s den.

“Shit,” Ed cursed, plucking the thought right out of Mustang’s head as the ceiling began to give way, crumbling like broken biscuits.

Mustang snapped.

Flames curled and licked at the fallen pieces, turning them into dust and smoke, saving them from death by pulverization. Ash coated the room and rained down on their heads like sooty snow. 

“ _Shit,_ ” Ed choked again, gasping for breath.

Heaving slightly, Mustang pressed himself and Ed against the wall, blinking the dust out of his eyes as he ceased the burning. Once the fire’s roaring ebbed away, the chorus of worried voices and fretful footsteps gradually caught up to him.

“Stay away,” he bellowed. The unit paused in their tracks, but he could feel the hesitation, the verge of defiance lingering in the air. “ _Don’t_ come in.”

Then something hit the periphery of his senses as his vision cleared. The vague outlines of a person, a silhouette greeted him through the smog, but it’d melded into the darkness before he could even blink. Before he could even snap.

Still, it was worth a shot.

Flames rushed forth once more to circle around them, but the only indication that he’d stricken anything was the charred, tiny scrap of cloth that descended to the earth. From it an overgrown spider emerged and scurried towards them, crawling over Mustang’s boots to make itself comfortable.

Then it started to spin its web in a pool of crimson.

In his blood.

Gossamer clung to red. The spider’s eyes gleamed menacingly, like bright rubies in the dark. The screeching intensified. Suddenly even the rats that had been left to decompose in their respective cages no longer seemed entirely dead; its shadows expanding and flickering threateningly against the peeling walls.

Mustang’s fists trembled with anger.

Forget stepping into a lion’s den, he thought. This was an ensnarement strapped with explosives.

A land mine.

But his main priority was Ed. Sparing him a cursory glance, he found that Ed had paled considerably by this point. His eyes were glazed, like he’d been pulled back to the past. Reliving a horrific memory that Mustang himself had once brushed away with undeserved nonchalance.

And in that split second, he made his decision.

The enemy could wait. For now, it was more pressing that they both got out alive.

Ignoring Ed’s protests, Mustang dragged him by the arm like a sack of potatoes and ran. The earth rumbled beneath them, quaking and disintegrating into dust with every step that they took.

Thankfully, Ed was a fast runner despite his short stature.

“What on earth’s going on?” Breda shouted as they emerged from the collapsing hideout.

“ _Run_ ,” Mustang commanded, not pausing to even catch his breath. He couldn’t be sure if they were out of the woods yet. Though the pavement outside appeared to retain its structural integrity, he wasn’t about to take any chances and risk having his subordinates buried under rubble.

This time, no one questioned his orders or bothered retaliating. (Mustang very rarely invoked a flight order, so _he_ knew that _they_ knew something extraordinarily disastrous must have happened.)Like a herd of animals freed from an oppressive farm, they ran back to their respective cars, driving off into the night.

Mustang tossed Ed into the car and remained standing outside alone. The wind howled against his bare skin, uncaring against the wounds that he’d sustained inside.

“What are you doing?”

“Quiet, Fullmetal. I’m concentrating.”

“That sounds like a bad idea already.”

Mustang watched, but the only hint of movement was a stray spider skittering away.

Good for him.

Because he was about to make things explode.

A trail of fire blazed towards the lab in a small, straight line.

Then it erupted.

A bright conflagration engulfed the lab, licking at it from every edge, every corner hungrily. Smoke billowed upwards in steady columns of grey. Fuelled by the disintegrating planks of wood, the fire only grew, rising and expanding like a devouring beast until it finally ingested the lab whole.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ed exclaimed, nails raking against his plush, leathery upholstery. Mustang chose to ignore it, though he could feel a part of his heart shattering at the thought of Ed ruining his car. 

“Relax. You did keep the pieces of parchment, right?” he asked, equal parts hopeful and anxious.

This, in his opinion, was the litmus test of whether Ed was truly a genius or an absolute idiot.

“Course I did. Shoved them in my pocket before everything turned to dust.”

Mustang smirked, relieved.

Gradually, the flames flickered and faded into embers, crumbling in on itself before it could cause further damage to the piteous trees around it. And before long, there was nothing left except rising dust and roiling discomfort.

“Glad to know you’re not entirely useless, then,” and he drove off, drowning out Ed’s tirade about how he would’ve been completely screwed if not for his stroke of ingenuity back in the lab.

Behind them, the spider scurried back into the smothering mix of dust and ash as gray clouds rolled over the dispersing smoke.

 **~x~** ****

“Worried for your man?”

“He’s not my man,” Riza deadpanned, consulting the clock every now as she paced around the leftovers on the dining table. “Whatever that means.”

“But you _are_ worried.”

“I just don’t want the food to get cold, that’s all.”

“Riza,” she began, in a voice that was sickeningly sweet. One that Riza had heard her use on unsuspecting men frequently for bargaining purposes. “Come on. You mean to tell me that you don’t feel anything for him at all? Even after the few months you’ve _lived_ together?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know what I’m talking about,” Rebecca drawled, grinning.

“I really don’t,” Riza sighed, thumbing the ends of her hair which fell just below her shoulders. (They’d gotten their hair and nails done earlier that afternoon at Rebecca’s pleaful insistence after a visit to the bank, but she wasn’t complaining. It was a refreshing change from the tangled, frizzy bundle of split ends that greeted her every morning.) “Besides, shouldn’t you get going? Don’t you have to… well, go to work or something tomorrow?”

Not that she necessarily abhorred having her around; Riza had gradually come to find her presence tolerable over the past few months. Enjoyable, even. When she wasn’t being subjected to one of her infamous questionings, anyway. Rebecca’s lively and gregarious nature had a way of casting a charmed, theatrical light around the room, and she was so open, so painfully _honest_ that it made it difficult to dislike her. (Although, her honesty was sometimes a double-edged sword as well - she wasn’t the most adept at hiding her disappointment whenever she raised an inside joke that Riza ought to have been privy to, but wasn’t.)

Still, the idea of being a further inconvenience didn’t sit quite well with her.

“Nah, I usually work at night.”

“... Well, it _is_ night-time, now.”

“It doesn’t matter. My schedule’s pretty flexible.” Rebecca stifled a yawn, stretching around like a lazy kitten before pouring herself a short drink. It was the good rum that Roy kept stored in his ebony cabinets; one that he sought solace in whenever his work overwhelmed him. _Just a brief respite,_ he’d say. True enough, he always stopped at one. It was often enough to send his cheeks flushing red, but not his mind. “Want a drink?”

“No, thanks. Where do you work?” Riza asked, genuinely curious (and grateful for the change in topic).

“I work at a hostess bar,” she stated, sipping at her drink idly.

“A hostess bar?” Riza echoed, surprised.

“Oh, _no,_ it’s not what you think,” Rebecca added hastily. “We don’t let the salacious ones get away, or get their way with us, for that matter. We’re just there to play pretend, extract juicy gossip and important information with our charm. It helps that alcohol tends to lower a man’s inhibitions, too.”

“So… like, what, an espionage ring?”

“Something like that,” Rebecca grinned. And suddenly she perked up, winking conspiratorially. “Actually, you’d make a perfect fit for the bar.”

“Me?” Riza said, incredulous. 

“Yes, _you_ , Riza Hawkeye,” she declared, sounding as if she were ordaining a priest. “No pressure, of course, but I know you’ve been unemployed for a while now. And just think of how much fun it’ll be, working with the great Rebecca Catalina.”

“How tactful. And I doubt it’ll be much fun working with _you_ , of all people,” Riza answered drily. Rebecca’s grin only brightened, spirits undamped. “But sure. I’ll think about it, I guess.” It certainly sounded like an interesting enough vocation. And the salary seemed relatively decent, if Rebecca’s lifestyle was any indication to go by.

At the same time, though, Riza didn’t think she was all that well-versed in the art of... seduction, or whatever it was Rebecca often did to send ogling men into a stammering, sweating mass of lust and nerves.

“Excellent! And don’t think you’re off the hook just yet,” Rebecca continued, jabbing her index finger at her. “You _know_ what I was trying to get at, unless you’re just really that dense.”

“Suppose I’m just that dense, then.”

“What do you think of him? Your, well, ‘housemate’?” Rebecca huffed, drawing air quotes with her almond-shaped nails.

“He’s alright,” Riza said curtly, stroking Hayate’s fur before rising to tend to the flowers in the vase resting by the windowsill. (Mostly to make sure the flowers were well and alive, but also to escape the impending interrogation.) A vibrant assortment of sunflowers and gerberas stood within — which, true to Roy’s word, _did_ have the effect of livening up the atmosphere. And the simple task of watering and rearranging them kept her hands busy. 

Regrettably, it wasn’t enough to occupy her mind.

Her eyes drifted back towards the clock once more, then to the outside world. It was already midnight. The cars had long ceased their impatient honking, creating an eerie, almost oppressive silence. Across the street, windows were clad with velvet and silk to ensure the inmates of the apartments privacy. A waning crescent peeked out candidly from the corner of a building, smiling upon the drunkards wandering the unpaved sidewalks.

And Roy still wasn’t home.

“He buys you flowers every other day, and you say he’s _alright_ ,” Rebecca muttered darkly to herself.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. I mean, what do you think of him? Looks-wise, like his face, body, personality, habits -”

“You sound like you’re haggling at a meat market or something,” Riza sighed tiredly. All the hustling and bustling earlier in the afternoon had worn her out, as had the talking. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed with her beloved pet. “He’s alright, like I said. He’s been very… nice. About the whole arrangement, I mean.”

Rebecca’s face brightened. Perking up a little, she nodded encouragement and opened her mouth to speak once more.

But the words never left. The subject of their discussion entered then, bedraggled and exhausted.

Bloodied.

“Hi,” Roy greeted, smiling wryly.

“Are you... okay?” Riza felt her stomach writhe at the sight of the blood-stained, shoddy excuse of a makeshift tourniquet coiling around his arm. The loose dressings were unravelling like a roll of toilet paper on its last legs, and his shirt was mostly mangled and torn up, though thankfully not to the point where he was indecent.

Roused by the scent of blood, Hayate bounded over and tugged at the hem of his pants worriedly.

“I’m fine,” he smiled, but was quick to disappear into the bathroom once he’d gotten his shoes off and Hayate away, presumably to clean up.

“He’ll be fine,” Rebecca reassured, reaching over to give Hayate a patronising pat. The pup whimpered pitifully. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried. Just... shocked, that’s all.”

What exactly did those godforsaken ‘duty calls’ of his entail, anyway? Had he gotten into a fight? Or worse still, had he been _attacked_?

“It’s not a crime to worry over someone,” Rebecca stated. (This Riza knew, of course. She just didn’t want to plant the wrong idea in Rebecca’s excitable mind with a careless admission.) “I mean, I worry about you all the time. It’s what friends do for each other. So does he.”

“He does that a little too much, if you ask me.”

“That he does. Go check on him, you know you want to,” she goaded, perhaps a bit too gleefully for the bloody situation.

“You’re leaving now, I’m guessing?”

“Of course. Three’s a crowd. Besides, it’s not life or death. He’ll manage,” Rebecca shrugged flippantly, as if this was a regular occurrence.

“... Right.”

And with one last jaunty wave, Rebecca was gone.

Once she’d made sure the door was securely locked and tucked Hayate underneath her canine-smelling coverlet to sleep with his favourite squeaky toy, Riza prodded over to the bathroom and knocked apprehensively.

“One moment,” Roy called over the sound of running water.

Riza complied. She waited outside, feet tapping impatiently as the clock ticked. Goosebumps pricked at her skin, from the spring chill and the growing concern that festered in her mind like a poison. At some point she’d been inclined to knock once more, but eventually he emerged from the bathroom with a strained, sheepish smile.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you like that -”

“It’s fine,” Riza insisted, though she couldn’t suppress the queasiness wriggling its way to her throat at the stickly, purplish stains on his uniform. The words wouldn’t come, so she settled for an inquiring look instead.

Roy understood.

“I’m fine, really. It’s much worse than it looks,” he placated, already beginning to rummage through his bathroom cabinet for medical supplies. Fishing out his first aid kit, he then lugged it to the couch and rolled his sleeves up once he was seated.

Riza followed suit, settling down beside him.

“I can help,” she offered.

Maybe it was rather crass, to think of it as an equivalent exchange. To be kind because of indebtedness. Or, if not that, because of guilt. He _had_ gone out of his way to help her a great deal, after all, notwithstanding the inconvenience that she must’ve brought upon him. And she hadn’t forgotten the way he’d assisted her either, when she was still recovering from the nasty wounds around her throat and hands. On her mind.

But as she reflected upon Rebecca’s earlier words, Riza realised it wasn’t entirely that, either. Part of her worry and concern were genuinely borne out of viewing him as something more than a mere acquaintance. A friend, perhaps, like Rebecca mentioned earlier. Like Rebecca herself. And though she still had her suspicions about the entirety of their history, he’d certainly proved himself a dependable companion. Kind, even when she hadn’t always reciprocated with the same sort of friendliness and hospitality he so readily offered.

So wasn’t this the least she could do for him, after all he’d done for _her_?

Roy smiled. “It’s alright. It’s just a minor scratch.”

Minor as it was, though, his struggle was painfully obvious. And Riza sighed. The man was impossible.Impossibly stubborn, that was.

“I’ll do it,” she said, removing the bottle of antiseptics from his hand. Roy looked like he was about to argue further, but she unscrewed the cap and silenced him with a glare.

So much for efficiency.

Gingerly, Riza ran a finger across his arm to check if there were any shards or splinters remaining, but it appeared he’d already done a decent job of tweezing them out in the bathroom. With a soaked cotton ball, she dabbed at his wounds, working with quiet, intense focus to avoid aggravating the pain he must’ve been feeling.

“You cut your hair,” Roy pointed out, breaking the hush that had fallen over them.

“I did,” she agreed, focused on the task at hand. “I thought men usually don’t notice such things, or so I’ve heard,” Riza said, recalling the words of the plaintive women lamenting over their husbands’ frustrating inattentiveness at the beauty parlour.

“Well, it’s hard to not notice these things,” Roy said. “I mean, it looks nice,” he supplied, smiling in a tentative manner that made her wonder if she’d perhaps been too standoffish, too guarded around him to make him constantly second-guess his own behaviour.

“... Thank you.” 

His smile only widened, eyes brightening with earnest sincerity.

A little self-conscious now, Riza tucked a stray strand behind her ear before tying the dressings around his arm into a neat little tourniquet. Once she deemed it satisfactory, she moved to address the wounds around his wrists and palm next.

“What’s that?” Riza asked, having noticed the old, faded scar on the back of his palm. Precedents of an old scuffle, perhaps? There was the jagged line near his elbow, too, but it was the one on his hand that intrigued her the most. If she looked close enough, she could make out the bare traces of a familiar circle, cut by a few triangles - an alchemical array - though it was too faint for her to understand its intended usage.

“It’s just… an old wound. A battle scar, I guess.”

“I see.” Indisposed as she was to prodding, she couldn’t help the concern - the _worry_ \- that crept up her skin and crawled into her bones. Injuries didn’t seem uncommon where he was involved, and if he’d carved that into his own skin… “Is it dangerous, working in the military?” Riza ventured to ask, even as she knew the answer was probably in the affirmative.

In the short time she’d lived with him, she’d come to learn that his best friend had tragically died in the line of duty. And though he’d spared her the full details, it was clear that he was still deeply affected by the incident. Scarred. (Riza herself couldn’t really empathise, as the everlasting grief that came with losing someone dear no longer lived in the ruins of her memory.)

“Yes and no, I suppose. It depends, really. Most of the time I’m just doing paperwork. Or trying to,” he joked.

Riza pursed her lips, thinking of an appropriate response.

“Well... Don’t die, I guess.”

Roy gave her a half-smile, like he was smiling at a memory. Not quite the response she wanted or expected, so Riza made sure to tug at the bandages with a bit more force than necessary. It wasn’t enough to hurt him, but apparently enough to get her message across.

“Alright,” said Roy, wincing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it xD Not gonna lie, this chapter gave me a ton of stress and anxiety because (1) This is the furthest I've ever gone in a multi-chap, LOL (2) I don't really have any experience writing action scenes, and pacing and I are not friends because my stream of consciousness tends to butt in a lot, and (3) plot points, hooray! I'm still pretty dang anxious about uploading this, but if I don't do it now it's just gonna stew in self-doubt forever in my Google Docs and it'll never see the light of day xD 
> 
> Huge shoutout to @RainFlame - this chapter was a dumpster fire, and she was a tremendous help <3 couldn't have done it without you, friend :') 
> 
> -
> 
> A lot's been going on recently, both emotionally and academically, and I haven't had the time or energy to sit down and properly edit this or reply to comments, haha. So I'm really sorry about the delay 😔 but that being said, I'm going to reply to the rest of the comments tomorrow (it's currently 2am where I live and I'm gonna upload this before heading to bed) xD 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought! I might take forever to reply, but you guys have no idea how often I re-read comments to figure out what works and how to improve my writing 🥺💖 and come [say hi on Tumblr](https://firewoodfigs.tumblr.com/ask) if you're there, I'm always open to scream about royai 😆
> 
> -
> 
> A few notes about this chapter:  
> (1) I was aiming for a macabre vibe, hence the quote and all the allusions to death. There are some important plot points and some bits of foreshadowing and symbolism, which I promise will make more sense as the story progresses - feel free to chime in with your theories! 😆  
> (2) The poem is adapted from [Catullus 101](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catullus_101). A few modifications have been made, but I have to confess that my knowledge of Latin is _de minimis_ at best, LOL. But see, this is the problem. I went with a Latin title, and now I'm trying to pay homage to it and commit to the theme xD I also thought it interesting, since the inscription on Riza's back is in Latin (or Aerugean?)... :) Apologies in advance if there are any mistranslations - feel free to correct me if you spot any errors! <3  
> (3) The numbers are there for a reason 😆  
> (4) The emblems of life and death in alchemy were taken from this chart. Now, I'm no alchemist, so I don't know how accurate it is, but I'm just gonna [plop it here](https://tattoodo-mobile-app.imgix.net/images/posts/postImage_vaFxi4iBja.png?auto=format%2Ccompress&fit=crop&w=400) anyway if anyone's interested! 
> 
> The next chapter might take awhile as my bar exam is looming around the corner :(( I have less than 2 months to study for 8 exams, but I'm gonna try to squeeze some time in between for a break and to do some writing if I can :) In the meantime, I hoe you're all keeping well and healthy! Stay safe and take care of yourselves, and happy Halloween in advance 🥰


	8. Chapter 8

_"[A]fter all, what are ghosts? Memories that write themselves indelibly into flesh, perhaps, like pain from an amputated limb." ― Philip Holden, Heaven Has Eyes_

**~x~**

Roy was almost relieved to find that the caller of the next morning was just Ed.

Almost. 

“Morning, bastard,” Ed called. Despite having saved his life just yesterday, the boy clearly still had no respect or regard for his elders. 

None at all. 

“Good morning to you too,” Roy answered drily over a mouthful of a day-old sandwich he’d found in his fridge that was strangely redolent of wet cardboard. “Are you coming over anytime soon?”

“Soon. I’m going to... run some errands first, and then head over to your mess of an apartment.” 

Mustang snorted. His apartment was actually pretty neat, and not just because of Riza’s ability to keep everything spotless and inhumanely organised. (Cooking was something he might’ve not been… all that great at, but cleaning was at least a manageable chore. It was also far preferable to paperwork.) 

“You’ll be surprised. But sure. See you in a bit,” and he was about to hang up when he heard a nervous stutter from the other end. “What?” 

Ed paused. The only sound that was audible to his groggy ears was the incessant (and frankly irritating) tapping of Ed’s fingers against the receiver. 

“U-uh...” he stammered, belligerence and typical brashness all gone. 

“Out with it, Fullmetal. I haven’t got all day,” Mustang scoffed, ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest. Suppose something happened to Ed in the short amount of time that he’d been kept away from his supervision? Whatever. It shouldn’t matter. Ed wasn’t his responsibility — not technically anymore, anyway. And he was a sixteen (or seventeen?) year old who was well capable of handling himself and staying out of trouble. 

Well. 

Maybe not the latter. 

“Should I get something for the Lieutenant?”

In the interests of self-preservation, Mustang withheld his laughter. “Anything’s fine.” 

“You sure? Does the Lieutenant like sweets?” Ed asked worriedly, sounding like he was already making a mental checklist of places that he could check out later. 

“Yeah,” Mustang smiled at the secret knowledge of her sweet tooth, before sighing at Ed’s strange proclivities for formalities when it came to Riza. Why she had to be the only one amongst the bunch of rascals under him capable of earning Ed’s respect, Mustang didn’t know. “And Fullmetal?” 

“What?”

Mustang rubbed at his temples tiredly. “Try not to call the Lieutenant by rank.” 

“Huh? Why?” 

“For someone who’s hailed a genius, you can be awfully slow.” 

Mustang could almost hear the gears shifting anxiously in Ed’s brain from the other line; an automatic response to sarcasm. And then, it clicked. Ed’s tone turned contentious, angry. “You mean to tell me she _doesn’t know_?” 

“... Yeah.” 

“How did - you - I’m - what the hell!” Since when did Ed become so inept at the art of communication? “How did you… how did you even manage to keep it from her?” 

_The same way I kept Hughes’ death from you for months,_ Roy thought, almost bitterly. The phone line coiled around his bandaged wrist like a snake, tighter and tighter until Ed’s voice started breaking, as if he were still a twelve-year-old experiencing puberty's vicious curse.

“Well?” The phone line crackled again. Mustang tapped his foot pensively.

“It’s a long story,” he offered, though there really wasn’t much to it. The essence of it was that he’d lied. He’d suppressed the truth, and in doing so he’d perpetuated a lie. That was it. 

The cold, hard truth of everything that had transpired since Riza met Truth. 

“I highly doubt so -”

“Maybe later,” Mustang interrupted, uncurling the phone line as he let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding. “I’ll see you in a bit,” and he hung up as the sounds of paws scratching at his door interrupted Ed’s indignant shrieking. 

“Hi,” Riza greeted as she entered. 

Gently, she scooped Hayate up into her arms as one would a toddler to stroke his fur, damp from the light spring rain outside. 

Roy smiled at the sight. “Hey. Did you get caught in the rain?” 

“Just slightly. There was a small drizzle,” Riza shrugged. “Are you feeling better?” 

“Me?” Roy echoed dumbly. Then he remembered the wounds on his arms; her careful gentleness last night. “Oh, right. I’m all good,” he reassured. “Thank you. For last night, I mean.” 

“You would’ve done the same,” Riza said nonchalantly. 

And Roy would have done so in a heartbeat, it was true. But he wasn’t sure whether it was meant to be a compliment or an indication of something else. Had she done it only because she’d felt obliged to? Or was she genuinely beginning to see him as something more than a mere acquaintance? 

Either way, it didn’t matter. He’d take whatever scraps of affection he could get at this point. Kind of like a stray puppy left alone in the rain — like Hayate all those years ago. Maybe it was a little pathetic, the way he gathered her little demonstrations of concern in his arms as if it were gold. But Roy felt he couldn’t really be faulted for doing so. It was hard. He missed _her_ dearly; the old Riza who would nag at him till his ears bled, make him laugh inwardly with the jokes that she’d crack at his expense. 

Part of him wanted her back more than anything.

But Roy convinced himself that he had to preserve the lie; the blissfully ignorant illusion that wrapped itself around their world with its pretty, glittering light. It was a necessary evil. Perhaps even an act of selflessness, he reasoned. 

“I would,” Roy said, offering her a small smile before he quickly changed the subject. Anything to get away from the dangerous train of thought. “By the way, about lunch…” 

“Sure. I’ll get lunch started,” Riza shrugged, then headed towards the kitchen once she’d gotten her shoes off. She laid Hayate down on his designated resting spot; a small, fluffy crib by the windowsill that ensured the pup a generous dose of sunlight and fresh air. 

Roy frowned. Though she’d readily obliged when he asked whether she would be alright with having Ed over earlier (he had a nagging suspicion, however, that this was something motivated by the fact that she deemed this apartment to be _his_ house), their prospective visitor clearly unsettled her. This much was obvious from her jittery need to be constantly preoccupied. In the past she would’ve sought comfort from the act of cleaning her pistols, oiling them to the point that they’d be gleaming even in the darkest of tunnels. 

Now, however. Now Riza busied herself with various household chores, from rinsing the already-sparkling ceramic plates to rearranging the flowers and potted plants such that they were obsessively neat; scouring each corner of the kitchen counter until it reeked of lemon-detergent and glistened like diamonds in the morning sun. And when Roy saw those things, he thought perhaps Riza hadn’t changed all that much after all. (Not to mention the words she’d uttered to him last night — the exact same words she’d said to him when they were still children who’d thought death a rarity.) 

But she’d changed. Clearly she had. Intimate divulgences were no longer something they shared, no matter how much he tried. 

No matter how much he pried. 

“Are you okay?” Roy asked, coming to her side as she got out a pot from the cabinet. 

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

_You seem a little unnerved,_ Roy wanted to say, but decided against it. Instead he offered to help out with preparing lunch. “Nothing. I was just asking. Mind if I help?” 

It was Riza’s turn to frown. “You should be resting, though.” 

“I’m alright. I got a lot of sleep last night,” which was a lie. He hadn’t slept well. Not after he was left alone to mull over her words, and especially not when he’d heard her gasping and heaving from the other side. 

The dark circles lining her anxious eyes were proof she hadn’t slept well, either. 

“... If you’re sure,” she relented, eyeing him carefully as he turned the radio on, then withdrew a knife from the drawer. “I’ll do the cutting. I don’t think you should be anywhere near a knife.” 

Roy nearly chuckled at the distant memory of a bossy, much younger version of Riza. ( _You can’t even peel carrots to save your life,_ she used to say. To prove himself, Roy would carry on the task of peeling them with greater bravado, only to end up with sliced, bleeding fingers and a terribly bruised ego that no ointment could heal.) 

“Okay. I’ll do the rest, then.” 

“You can do the stirring or something later, perhaps,” Riza instructed, then set about to work. 

Wordlessly, Riza began to chop the carrots and potatoes up, seeming to enter a world of her own as she did so. Yet she was anything but relaxed. Her shoulders were tense, as if weighed down by some unspeakable worry; lips tightly pursed such that it was clear she was not in the mood for small talk or mindless prattling. 

Feeling somewhat helpless - and god forbid, useless - Roy began to set up the dining table instead, the unintelligible murmurs of a nonsensical radio programme the only thing weighing on the silence between them. 

**~x~**

Ed was surprisingly courteous when he arrived. Mustang had been expecting a kick to its door, perhaps its demolition, but the only thing that came was apprehensive knocking. 

“I’ll get it,” he said, stating the obvious. 

Riza nodded and went back to stirring the beefy stew, bubbling like orange lava in the pot. 

“Hello, Lieu - oh.” Ed’s face fell. Mustang glared at him, as if to remind him of their earlier conversation. “It’s you.” 

“Of course it’s me. This is _my_ house.” 

Ed looked right past him, as if Mustang weren’t standing at the doorstep to obstruct his line of vision. He clutched on to a suspicious-looking, box-shaped paper bag in one hand as if it were gold. “And therefore _your_ rules?” 

“It’s not a rule,” Mustang sighed. Forced into a bit of a corner, Mustang decided to do the one thing he never would, were Ed still under his charge: plead. Half-beg. Request for a favour politely. “Just… I know what I’m doing. Listen to me for once, will you?” 

Ed snorted, cocked his chin up and gave Mustang a glare that made him feel as if he were the greatest living scumbag around. “Fine. But you better give me a damn good explanation as to what’s going on, bastard.” 

Roy Mustang was, as far as possible, a man of his word. And so he made no promises. Instead he shrugged, and said, “Come in.”

“I still can’t believe you invited me to your place, of all things,” Ed said, shucking his gaudy red coat and tacky boots off to reveal his metal foot in all its shiny glory. 

“Me neither.” 

Mustang heard Ed hum approvingly under his breath, presumably at the surprising neatness. He led the blonde towards the kitchen. 

The dining room table was set nicely for three: a checkered tablecloth, porcelain dinnerware and some of his finest china teacups. Most of them were gifts from balding sycophants in the military, who scrutinised women’s bodily proportions as keenly as they did any promotions and potential downfalls of his. Generally repulsive beings, but Mustang thought they at least had good taste, if nothing else. All of these made for rather lovely aesthetics in the end. 

Aesthetics that Edward Elric, an uncultured swine with an incomprehensible adoration for gargoyles and skulls, was unable to appreciate. 

“Smells good,” Ed said as he laid the box down beside the teacups. Then he walked right past the decorations, not bothering to spare even a single glance at Mustang’s labour, and was promptly attacked by Hayate’s slobbery tongue. 

A wave of dread came over Roy as Riza turned around to face them. He hadn’t been there much when Catalina came around for her reunion with Riza. In a way, therefore, _she_ had been the one to do all the ‘dirty’ work, so to speak. But now Roy felt like a mediator between two strangers - though it wasn’t as simple as that, either. He had to be mindful of Ed’s feelings, but also make sure that the tactless _child_ would not unwittingly leak out sensitive information. (Hughes. Hughes would’ve been great at this. Or his Lieutenant.) 

And how strange it must’ve been to Ed, that what was supposed to be a long-awaited reunion was now an introduction!

“Hello,” Riza greeted. She dried her hands on a towel and turned off the stove. “You must be Edward.” 

“Y-yeah,” Ed stuttered, eyes widening just slightly as he gave an awkward, almost reverent wave. “Hi, lieu - er, hi, ma’am?” 

“Get it together,” Mustang whispered, nudging Ed with an elbow. 

“... Just Riza is fine,” Riza said, raising an eyebrow as if to question the nature of their relationship. Still, she seemed content enough to excuse his strange behaviour. Gesturing to the table, she asked amicably, “Shall we?” 

“S-sure!” 

Torn between amusement and frustration, Mustang rubbed his temples as if it could dispel his imminent headache. On one hand he felt bad for Ed; he knew just how stupefying the entire predicament was. Yet even he had to admit that Ed’s sudden shift in demeanour shyness was somewhat endearing. Maybe even funny. After all, it was rare to see the normally impetuous brat get reduced into a flustered, stammering mess, tripping over his words like a child afraid of stepping on his mother’s toes.

It was also a recipe for disaster. 

“Better watch it,” Mustang muttered darkly under his breath. 

Ed gave an imperceptible nod and sat down without complaint, for once. 

Sighing, Mustang turned and was about to bring the pot of stew over when a hand stopped him. 

“I’ll do it. Go sit,” Riza ordered, eyeing his bandaged wrist. 

Mustang chuckled sheepishly. He did as he was told and settled down beside Ed. 

“Seems like she hasn’t changed all that much,” Ed whispered, a brittle hope in his voice that Mustang hadn’t the heart to trample on. 

“... Yeah.” 

Had she? It did seem as if traces of her past self were starting to subconsciously manifest themselves, but he couldn’t be sure if that was the case. Perhaps it was because those habits were so deeply ingrained in her as to be unforgettable. What else did she remember, then? Had any of her old memories returned to her? Was she starting to get more comfortable with him because of time, or the sentimental prompt of memory? Roy didn’t dare ask. 

And he didn’t dare get his hopes up. 

Riza’s hands trembled ever so slightly as she laid the pot down on a blue placemat - from nerves, or from her old wounds, Roy wasn’t sure. 

“Thank you,” Roy said, suddenly wishing he wasn’t so… 

So _useless._

“Thanks! This looks great,” Ed enthused, already fiddling with a silver spoon as clouds of steam rose from the pot to blur the afternoon sun in its wake. 

“Thank you.” Riza smiled as she undid her apron. She served them first, scooping out generous portions of fresh, hot stew before doing the same for herself. Like her old self, Riza always put the needs of others before her own, but she was tentative; not quite at ease. Distant. “Please, go ahead.” 

“This is great!” Ed praised. 

For once they were in agreement about something. Roy gave Riza a grateful nod when the first spoonful of stew went past his lips. 

“Thanks,” Riza said, a small smile playing on her lips as she toyed with her bowl. 

A strange, teeming hush descended upon them. Seconds, then minutes passed. Metal clinked against porcelain as they ate wordlessly. A small, gentle fire crackled in the background. Occasionally, Hayate would sniff curiously at the air, tense with the weight of silence, while Ed would slurp at his stew as he fidgeted like a nervous, restless child before offering another heartfelt compliment. 

Roy did the same, but he felt terribly out of his element. He was always a little less glib-tongued than he liked to be whenever it came to affairs of the heart. Politics and alchemy he could handle, but affairs of the heart were a bit like speaking a foreign language. 

Roy speared a potato none too gently and brought it up to his mouth. As he chewed, he glanced at Ed expectantly, not quite used to his quietness or sudden emergence of table manners. (Or manners, in general.) 

Ed spoke up at last after another spoonful of stew.

And like every great conversationalist, he began by talking about the weather.

“Sure is nice here. The - um, the weather, I mean,” Ed said. “Spring is a lot colder out in the countryside.” 

Riza looked up from her bowl, curiosity piqued. “The countryside? Where are you from?” 

“I’m from Resembool,” he started. Mustang noted the contentment and pride in his eyes, and smiled to himself. Surely Ed was glad to be back home after all that had transpired. After getting Alphonse’s body back at last. “It’s colder there. Winters can get pretty chilly, but definitely not as bad as Briggs. I thought I was gonna freeze to death there,” Ed laughed weakly, like he was reminiscing an inside joke. 

Mustang couldn’t help but laugh along. According to the reports he’d received, Ed was indeed on the verge of death while he was at Briggs, though for various reasons. The unforgiving cold was one. Another reason was the General who guarded the fort: apparently she hadn’t been too fond of the squirt at first, even if he’d been dispatched there by her brother. 

Suffice to say, Ed was lucky to have gotten away without any mortal wounds. Very, _very_ lucky.

“I’m sure it is. You sound very well-travelled for your age,” Riza remarked. 

“Uh, n-not really,” Ed stuttered. He glanced at Mustang from the corner of his eyes, nervous and unsure. 

“What brings you to Central, all the way from the countryside, then?” 

Ed nearly choked on his stew. 

Mustang hoped for the best. 

“I… well, I was actually working for this je-” Mustang kicked his good foot from beneath the table. It was futile. Ed, dense as a rock, did not get the message. He amended his earlier words, and continued, “Uh, this man here, I mean.” 

Clearing his throat, Ed reached out for a cup of chamomile tea. Across him, Riza’s expression was pensive, like she was trying to piece two and two together. (More show) 

“Aren’t you… aren’t you a little young for that?” Riza pointed out, ironically. 

The sudden urge to strangle Ed was overwhelming. 

Mustang was about to interject, when Ed nudged _his_ foot and straightened in his seat.

“It’s nothing like that, Miss Riza. He… he’s a good boss,” Ed said, looking like he was about to spontaneously combust and project bile at his lunch companions anytime. Involuntarily, Roy’s mind conjured, in rather vivid detail, the memory of dragging a ten-year-old boy out of his wheelchair by his shirt. Even when he’d lost an arm and a leg and his will to live. “Very… well, he treated my brother and I very well.” 

Roy pretended to be abashed by the compliment, and chimed in with his own niceties. Some of them were falsehoods. Others were not. “Yeah. He was pretty easy to work with. Nice kids. His brother, especially.” 

Riza nodded acknowledgement and turned back to Ed. And she waited, prompting him in her own quiet way. 

Ed was a surprisingly generous supplier of information. Maybe because he was flustered by the whole situation, or perhaps he’d sensed the impending silence that would reign, tense and awkward if he stopped. 

Either way, Ed soldiered on. 

“Anyway… He recruited me awhile back, and after giving it some thought I decided to become a State Alchemist.” 

“You’re an alchemist, too?” Riza’s tone was not disparaging, only intrigued. 

“I - well, I _was._ I can’t use alchemy anymore because… well, because things happened,” Ed prevaricated. He shot Mustang another furtive, beseeching glance, as if he was seeking approval on whether he was being sufficiently vague. “But I mean, it’s alright. My brother and I managed to get -” 

Mustang saw what was coming from a mile away. 

He stepped on Ed’s good leg. Hard. 

For good measure. 

Ed yelped, expletives written all over his face. 

“Are you alright?” Riza asked, a little concerned by the sudden change in demeanour. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Ed choked. “Probably an insect bit my toe, or something.” 

“Oh,” Riza said, thoroughly unconvinced. 

“Anyway, yeah. That’s about it. And then… Er, _he,_ ” Ed thrust a thumb in Roy’s direction, still a little pale from choking earlier, “Introduced us to each other along the way.”

“I see.” Her stew had almost congealed by now, in the crisp cool air that drew loose strands out of Ed’s unruly braid. Roy heard her sharp intake of breath, before Riza turned to gaze at Ed, forlorn and sombre. “I’m very sorry, Edward. I don’t… well, I don’t remember much at the moment. I didn’t mean to pry, or make you uncomfortable. It’s probably none of my business.” 

“No, no! It’s nothing like that,” Ed half-exclaimed. “It’s nothing you already knew - I mean, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. Not at all.” 

“That’s… well, that’s very kind of you to say.” 

“It’s true, Riza,” Roy urged. His breath hitched in his throat when he looked into Riza’s eyes, fraught with self-reproach and gentle contrition. How could she blame herself for something that was not even her fault to begin with? Something that was _his_ fault? (It was the same with Ishval. It’d been his fault that he’d abused her trust, misused flame alchemy for murder and destruction instead of prosperity. Instead of the people’s good.) “Don’t blame yourself.” 

“That’s right,” Ed chimed in. His eyes scanned the table anxiously, scrambling for a diversion. “Dessert?” 

“Sure. Thank you, Edward. You didn’t have to.” 

“Not at all. Thank you for lunch,” Ed said, who’d demolished his entire bowl of stew long ago. When he opened the box to slice the fruit cake up as neatly as he could, Riza thanked him again. Ed blushed. 

Mustang chuckled sadly as he watched the exchange between them. Riza was genuinely grateful, he could tell. But her thank-yous were so unfailing, so courteous as to be almost impersonal, as if she felt she did not deserve a single ounce of kindness. 

“Thank you,” Riza said again, when the plate was served in front of her. Then she smiled, a fleeting ghost of a smile that disappeared with the first bite. 

And Riza did not say a word as she had her cake and ate it. 

**~x~**

Mustang wanted to be upset with Ed. 

He really did. He was frustrated. Pissed. A punch to Ed’s face or two would’ve made for a brilliant, cathartic release. 

But he also saw the crushing look pass Ed’s features every time he thought either adult wasn’t looking, and couldn’t help but feel a wee bit sympathetic. 

So he made Ed do the dishes with him instead. 

(Riza had retired to her room immediately after lunch, and he really didn’t mind an extra pair of helping hands. It wasn’t motivated by revenge, of course. He wasn’t that childish. Just pure convenience; Roy didn’t quite fancy the idea of getting his bandages thoroughly soaked.)

“The lack of complaint from you is… surprising,” Mustang commented. 

Beside him, Ed sulked as he rubbed aggressively at a particularly stubborn stain. 

“Don’t push your luck. I’m doing this for the Lieutenant. Not you,” Ed growled, keeping his eyes carefully averted from Mustang. 

Mustang shook his head as he patted another plate dry. 

Amongst the three of them whom Riza had gotten reacquainted with - him, Rebecca and Edward - Mustang liked to think that he was the most adept at hiding his feelings. Years of politicking had certainly taught him how to keep his enemies close and his cards closer. Rebecca was naturally expressive, but she was also military, so she came a close second. But Edward… where did he even begin? The kid was _exactly_ the kind of moron who’d go around proclaiming that he didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything or anyone, and then proceed to wear his entire heart on his sleeve. (Mustang sincerely hoped that becoming a professional poker player wasn’t in his list of alternative career options. He’d go bankrupt in a day.) 

And Riza, ever perceptive, clearly hadn’t missed the haunted look in his wide, golden eyes. 

“You’re a terrible liar, you know.” 

“And you’re a big, fat liar,” Ed retorted, still deeply focused in his fight against the deep orange splotch. 

“Touche,” Mustang shrugged. Drying the rim of a teacup, he asked, “Need a hand with that?” 

“No,” Ed grunted instantly, as if the offer had been a personal affront to his ego. The offer of assistance seemed to work, however, as Ed scrubbed at the spot with even greater gusto until it finally came off with the running water. Ed smirked proudly. “All done.” 

“Great. Thanks.” 

Ed muttered something derisive under his breath that sounded like a cross between _slave driver_ and _you’re welcome._

“What was that?” 

“Nothing,” Ed grumbled, fingers clenched around the edge of the kitchen sink. Like an immovable statue, he remained firmly rooted to the exact same spot, even after Mustang had placed all the crockery back to where they belonged. Then, so softly that Mustang might have missed it, he asked, “Is she alright?” 

“Who?” 

“Who else?” Ed half-screeched. A bird who looked like it had half a mind to find respite on Mustang’s windowsill flew off, perhaps frightened by Ed’s violent reaction. 

“... She will be.” 

Ed inhaled sharply. Mustang waited in silence, as one might when waiting for a skittish squirrel to approach. He busied himself with watering the plants by the window, admiring the way in which Riza had rearranged them in her own meticulous, attentive way. 

“I messed up, didn’t I?” 

“Well, to be fair, I think we both did." 

Ed whirled around to glare at him. Ire flashed in his eyes, but even then Mustang could see the same knowing reflected back at him, and couldn’t help but wonder if Ed had ever struggled with hiding the truth. 

“Are you… are you ever going to tell her?” 

Mustang grimaced, turning so that he could lean back against the counter top for support. He crossed his arms and looked sideways, the soap residue suddenly becoming a subject of immense fascination. “I don’t know.” 

Ed did not retort with violent anger like he usually would have, confirming Mustang’s suspicions. His eyes were downcast, like he was reflecting upon a memory that was none too distant. 

“How’s she going to get her memory back, then?” 

“I figured you’d know better,” Mustang shrugged. “First hand experience, and all.” 

Ed unclenched his fingers and opened his palms as if he were unfurling a secret. “Truth always has all kinds of stupid riddles that may or may not make sense. Fed me some bite-sized sermon about humility and not playing God - stuff which I already knew - so I gave up alchemy to get Al’s body back.”

Mustang nearly laughed at how _easy_ Ed made it sound. “You make it sound like you solved a riddle and got a prize for it.” 

“In a way, it was,” Ed said almost indignantly, turning such that they were both now facing the empty kitchen table. “That stupid thing is always talking in circles, like some socially defunct alien even though he claims to be me. You. The universe.”

“Pot, kettle.” 

“Do you want my help or not?” 

Mustang waved a hand dismissively. (Sometimes it was just too easy to rile the kid up, it was almost impossible to resist doing so.) “Carry on.” 

“So… I don’t know. Maybe there’s a way the Lieutenant can give up something to get back her memories?” 

“Like what?” 

“Her…” Ed fumbled for a moment. “Her alchemy, maybe? Not that I’ve seen her perform it before, but she must’ve known a little bit of… of _something_ to open the Gate, right?” 

Roy mulled over Ed’s theory, craning his neck skywards. “The thing is,” he began, “I don’t know what she knows, or doesn’t know. I don’t even know if she still knows alchemy, to be honest.” 

“How’d she know in the first place?” 

“I taught her.” 

“ _You_ did?” Mustang nodded evasively. (It was a good thing Ed knew nothing about the tattoo on her back; knowing his brash impulse he’d probably jump to the conclusion that he was the one responsible for it.) “When?” 

“It was a long time ago. Wasn’t much, though,” Mustang sighed, rubbing a palm over his face as if to wipe away the memory of a young, precocious blonde; begging him with those sad, imploring eyes of hers to teach him just a little bit of alchemy so that she could be of some use around the house. So that she could earn a smidgen of her father’s attention. _Please, Mister Mustang. I won’t take up much of your time, I promise._ In the end, he’d acquiesced to her pleas, only because the utter despair and determination in his eyes was enough to pulverize whatever resolve he had to abide by his master’s unspoken rules. 

Damn it, Mustang thought remorsefully. Maybe they wouldn’t have gotten into this mess if he’d just listened and not taught her in the first place. 

“She a childhood friend, or something?” 

“Why, did it remind you of yours?” Mustang shot him a knowing look, watching as embarrassment broke out across his features like hives. 

“No. Just… unexpected information,” Ed retorted. Then he cleared his throat and went back to business. “Seems like the Lieutenant knows more about alchemy than you think she does, though.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, like I said - I’ve never seen her use alchemy before, so I wouldn’t know. But those loonies were always muttering about suitable candidates and whatnot. It was… it was supposed to be you, wasn’t it?” 

Mustang flinched, doing his level best to keep his demeanour casual despite the gut-wrenching guilt. His mind inched towards the visceral image of Riza being pinned down, forced to open the Gate, in _his_ stead. 

(It should’ve been him.) 

“Yeah.” 

“So, I don’t know,” Ed shrugged, crossing his arms like he was trying to protect himself from the very same memory. “Either way, it’s not exactly equivalent if Truth took both her memories and alchemy away.” 

“So you think she’d still be able to perform alchemy?” 

“Probably. If… If she opened the Gate…” 

This time, Mustang actually blanched. He ran a thumb across his injured palm, recalling Riza’s previously bandaged one. “Now’s probably not the best time.” 

Ed nodded sagely, vehemently. Mustang heard the tremor in his voice as he mumbled, “It’s not fun visiting Truth, I can tell you that much.” 

“What’s it like, actually?” Catching sight of Ed’s stricken expression, he quickly added, “Never mind. Forget I asked.” 

“It’s just… hard to describe. The first… the first time it happened -” Mustang listened closely, suddenly feeling like a callous bastard for the way he’d manhandled a traumatised, helpless child. “Well, just imagine hands grabbing at you from all over, like when you’re stuck in a crowded haunted house. Kinda like a shitty carnival, if you ask me,” Ed laughed weakly. 

Mustang did not. 

“Not funny, Fullmetal.” 

“Heh, I tried,” Ed swallowed, rubbing at his right arm as if to reassure himself that it was real. His fingers trembled as he persisted. 

Mustang encouraged him with silence once more. Ed inhaled deeply, as if summoning courage from deep within, shoulders rising and falling before he continued. 

“But yeah. The hands were creepy. Afterwards, I just remember having a whole barrel of information shoved into my brain forcibly. Everything I ever wanted -” his voice cracked slightly, and Ed made another miserable attempt at levity - “wanted to know about the world, I guess. Stuffed into my brain like turkey stuffing.”

“Sounds like hell,” Mustang offered blithely, making sure to keep any ounce of sympathy - Ed’s greatest nemesis - out of his voice. Almost involuntarily his mind drifted towards Riza at the mention of hell again. 

Hell, a place reserved for sinners of the worst kind, like him. 

Not her. 

Guilt gnawed at his insides; a pestilent rat who reminded him of all her afflictions, past and present. Now that he was thinking about it, it all made sense why she’d been so averse to touch. _His_ touch, specifically. At first he’d chalked it up to her natural disdain of strangers, but now… now it was finally starting to click. Her encounter with the Truth must’ve been so deeply traumatic, so incredibly terrifying as to leave an indelible mark in her mind, even without her memories. And what about the faded scratch on her cheek? He’d never gotten the chance to ask her about it. Perhaps it was related, somehow? 

“Yeah. Told ya. But we’re good, now,” Ed said, standing up a little straighter, a little prouder. 

“I’m glad you and Al got your bodies back, at least.” Mustang smiled, the way a father would seeing his child all grown up. “Speaking of, how’s the better brother doing? I’m surprised he didn’t tag along.” 

Ed snorted, rolling his eyes skyward. “Yeah, yeah. He’s… alright. Still recuperating.” 

“Recuperating?” 

“From having his body starved and malnourished and his muscles atrophied after five years, yeah,” Ed said sardonically. 

“Oh,” was Mustang’s ingenious response. 

“ _Oh,_ yeah,” Ed mirrored snarkily. Sarcasm aside, though, Mustang could almost feel the worry rolling off in waves. It dawned upon him then that Ed probably couldn’t wait to get out of here and return home. 

To Resembool, and to Alphonse. 

“You should probably get going soon, then.” 

“Are you kicking me out of your house now, Mustang?” 

“Something like that,” he shrugged, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Alphonse must be waiting for you, I’m sure.” 

“He’s alright. He’s got Granny and Win.” 

“What’s that now? Pet names? Why, I never pegged you for the romantic sort —” 

“Shut _up_ ,” Ed snarled, baring his teeth like a feral dog. 

Mustang smirked. “I’m just toying with you. Can I trust you to not blow anything up on your way back to Resembool?” 

“No guarantees, bastard. Maybe I’ll blow up a train or two to get back at you.” 

“That would be greatly appreciated, thank you very much,” Mustang said dryly as he straightened, cocking his head at the door. “Come on. You should get going before the last train departs.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Got it, you naggy old man.” Ed stretched luxuriously and began walking towards the door, Mustang trailing behind with his keys in tow. “What’re you planning to do about last night?” 

Mustang groaned. Couldn’t a man catch a break every now and then, too? Or was the universe simply conspiring to pit against all of them at once? 

“You kept the note with you, right?” 

“Yeah,” Ed said. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is this the part where you shirk your responsibilities by throwing them to me again?” 

“A good leader knows when to delegate tasks to his subordinates,” Mustang answered sagaciously as he ushered Ed towards the door and out of his house. “Besides, I’m sure you have better things to do than just laze around in the countryside with nothing but green pastures and tranquility.” 

Ed grunted like he’d been called out. “You’re just lazy, admit it.” 

“I’m busy, too. Not everyone gets to retire at the age of sixteen,” Mustang said, unlocking the door. “I’m counting on you, Fullmetal.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Ed waved a hand flippantly as he stepped out. “I’ll update you if I come across anything useful. In the meantime, I’m counting on you to pay me well.” 

“Tough luck. You still owe me money.” 

“And _you_ still owe me a promise.” Whirling around to face him for the last time, Ed thrust a finger in Mustang’s face. “Better take care of the Lieutenant, jerkface.” 

Mustang chuckled at his antics and shook his head. “You don’t need to tell me that.” Then, softening a little, he added, “Thanks, Edward.” 

And like the gauche teenager that he was, Ed simply grunted and stormed off wordlessly with his head hung high. 

**~x~**

The house was strangely - almost oppressively - quiet after Ed left. There was nothing more Roy wanted than to check on Riza. His heart ached at the thought of her getting consumed by her own inner turmoil, by the pangs of self-reproach that she was so often susceptible to. In a bid to respect her privacy, however, Roy forced himself to step away from her door and instead went to his room. He began to do his paperwork. 

He tried, and he failed. 

His mind soon grew a mind of its own. Despite being its sole owner, Roy quickly learnt that he was having trouble bending it to his will. Every now and then, his mind would leap towards the other occupant in the house of its own accord just as he was nearly on the verge of signing on a dotted line. 

Roy groaned and tossed his pen on the table, watching it bounce and skid to a halt. He longed for the burn of alcohol to quell the turbulent storm raging within. It was an old, wartime friend that he’d frequently sought comfort in. A constant companion through death and tragedy. Maybe just one drink, he told himself. Sometimes just one drink would be enough for the liquor to rush through his veins like oil rigging a machine, sending it off to productivity’s exclusive little corner - a corner reserved for the diligent and the tipsy. 

But Roy looked down at his injured palm and sighed. He could do without. Maybe a short walk, then. Some stretching and movement would be good for his troubled heart. 

Uncrossing his legs, Roy rose and left his desk, meandering around the house aimlessly as he made a conscious effort to not pace outside Riza’s door like a restless ghost. Moments later, he walked towards his bookshelf and extracted an old, leather journal from there, flipping open the yellowed pages that housed his memories of the countryside so delicately— as if he were afraid of damaging them. 

Then he removed a faded photograph and thumbed it gently. 

Again his mind wandered, this time to the countryside — first to Tobha, where he’d first met Riza, then to Resembool, where he’d first met Edward. It dawned upon him, then, that the similarities between them and their broken childhoods were almost uncanny. Absent fathers, both geniuses in their own rights; forsaken and neglected in the name of alchemy, a premature encounter with death that left them to fend for themselves… All of it had hit too close to home for Riza. 

Roy remembered how severely she’d reprimanded him after his first meeting with the Elrics. His anger had been borne from fear, but even then Riza had been adamant that it was no justification to treat a child - a broken, helpless child - like that. It was an indefensible thing to her. And Roy had gotten defensive, at first. He’d never quite liked being on the receiving end of anger - _her_ anger, in particular. But realisation soon struck when he saw the poignance in her eyes. 

Riza had seen herself in their shoes. 

Death still stung raw, even with the passing of time. This much was obvious from the way her gaze had lingered on the disarray of sepulchres scattered across the vast expanse of green pastures like dust, damp from the evening mist and human grief. 

(The orphans that they'd created and cremated in the badlands only worsened it.) 

Roy had left it at that, then. Riza was understandably devastated by the memory of her mother, and he had nothing to offer other than platitudes and apologies that, even to him, sounded hollow. (Roy himself couldn’t really empathise, as he hadn’t known either of his parents at all. It was probably worse to know and love a mother and watch her die, than to not even remember her enough to miss her.) Guilty as charged, he’d left her to dwell in solemn quietude and wisely refrained from rubbing salt on her wounds, thinking that was all there was to it. 

Until —

_I think I know why my father - your master - got so ill, all of a sudden._

And then, it finally clicked. 

It wasn’t Riza’s first time seeing _it._

He hadn’t probed, but he had the necessary shreds of information to deduce that she’d been the one to bear witness to his master’s crime and punishment. Alchemy’s greatest taboo. Perhaps she’d even been the one to bury the distorted remains of her mother, in the darkened woods shrouded from the world's scrutiny. (Roy hoped not, but knowing the extent of her father’s - if he could even be called one - negligence, it was not an improbable theory.) 

And now she’d seen it all: the grave aftermath of meeting Truth, and Truth itself. 

Purgatory. Hell. A place reserved for the worst of sinners, the most unforgivable and depraved beings, like him — 

It should’ve been him.

Roy clenched the picture in his hands until it began to crease. He inhaled deeply, sharply, feeling the hopelessness, the bitter anger rise in his chest until it buried itself in his bones. An aching chill wrapped itself around him like a shroud, leading him towards his cabinet of wines and spirits. 

Roy poured himself a drink. Liquid courage. God, he needed that! His earlier resolve melted with the ice. He brought the cup up to his lips, heart pounding in his ears the more he drank. 

(Hawkeye would’ve killed him for this, he thought. She’d made him swear solemnly that he’d abstained from anything with a tendency to burn one’s throat and lower one’s inhibitions after the fight with Lust. Knowing that he would not last in a tussle against his Lieutenant - especially if it turned physical - Roy had kept his word, and obediently refused his mother’s offer of a burning concoction or two.) 

Quickly, almost urgently, Roy finished his drink and returned to his room, working through the warm haze of alcohol. An hour passed like that, then two. Unaccustomed to working without his closest aide by his side, Roy only managed to finish less than a quarter of the stack that had amassed itself on his desk, but he felt it was at least something. Decent progress. 

Back stiff and heart heavy with worry, Roy left his room again and stood outside Riza’s. An anxious weariness came over him. He longed for nothing more than to be the recipient of her innermost thoughts, to soothe her worries and hold her in his arms — as if his arms could bridge whatever distance, whatever chasm separated them. 

He doubted she’d react well to his touch, however. 

Roy gripped his elbows and paced back and forth, glancing at the clock. It was nearing dinner-time, which meant he had a plausible excuse, at least. And if Riza didn’t want to talk, then he’d simply leave her be. What was the worst that could happen? It wasn’t like him to pussyfoot around her.

So much for honesty! 

Roy walked back and knocked on her door lightly. 

“Riza?” 

**~x~**

Riza jerked upright, snapping out of her reverie when she heard Roy’s voice. 

Gently, Riza closed the book - _his_ book - she was perusing and began to collect herself, like she was piecing little fragments together into a workable thing. Her nerves were frayed, her back sore from the afternoon’s tension that had left her muscles coiled into a string of tight, stubborn knots. 

Inhaling sharply, Riza rolled her shoulders and winced at the movement after having spent so long hunched over. Then she put her face in her hands and sighed. 

“I’ll be out in a minute.” 

_Breathe,_ Riza reminded herself. It wouldn’t do well to dissolve into another bout of irrational panic over nothing. Roy probably had enough to deal with, too. He was a busy man. A member of the military with priorities and responsibilities, superiors to answer to and subordinates to look after. He had his own injuries and battles to deal with. Enough of his own to worry about. 

Yet here she was, only adding to his worries. 

Perhaps a part of her was envious of Roy, too. The younger boy as well. They both had their own stories to tell and a place where they really, _truly_ belonged. Roy, for one, was at least gainfully employed in the military. Sure he might’ve been bogged down by unending piles of paperwork and other more troubling incidents; sleep-deprived and excessively reliant on caffeine, but even then she could tell that he genuinely cared for the subordinates under him. Take Edward, for example. And the passion - the unmistakable passion in his eyes - that translated into an overwhelming desire to serve. It was as if he was constantly thinking of some greater good. Something bigger than himself. A community.

Edward, on the other hand, seemed to find his footing in the countryside. He hadn’t spoken of his brother much, but it was plainly obvious just how much he loved him. The adoration in his voice spoke volumes; carrying with it the unspoken promise that he would sacrifice everything and do anything for him. And his face had positively _glowed_ when he talked about Resembool. It was a place dear to his heart, Riza could tell. A venerated treasure chest that held wonderful memories for him. 

Memories that she was sorely lacking in.

Perhaps she was just a sorry impersonation of who she once was. A fraud. Riza had nothing to call her own; nothing meaningful to contribute to the world apart from grief and pain, miseries that should’ve been her own instead of others’. 

A burden. 

Whatever had she done to deserve Roy’s kindness? Their kindness? Riza thought again of Edward. He’d been so kind and considerate even in the face of his own disappointment, graciously accepting every apology and every word of thanks that did nothing to alleviate his own suffering. 

How cruel of her to hurt a child! 

Hayate pawed at her feet softly. Riza looked down at him. His beady eyes were affectionate and wide, anxious. Cocking his head inquisitively, he let out a small whimper and nestled around her feet. _Are you alright?_ he seemed to be asking. 

Not just a child. She’d hurt a dog, too. 

Cruelty at its finest. 

Riza nodded, offering the pup a small, gentle smile. 

“It’s nothing,” she reassured, fingers trembling against the sheets. 

Riza scanned the room for a distraction. The rug was blurry against the polished wooden tiles, swirls and squares merging together into unrecognisable patterns. Riza blinked. Her eyes felt damp, somehow. Maybe her room was dusty? Time to vacuum it again, then. How odd. She’d just done so earlier that morning. 

“Riza?” Roy called again, after what must’ve been an eternity of rigid silence for him. “Is everything alright?” 

Riza kept her answers sharp, deliberately short so that her vulnerabilities would not seep through. 

“I’m fine.” 

“... Are you sure?” Roy’s voice was tentative, and as far as she could tell, genuinely concerned. 

Riza willed her voice to not crack. 

“Yes.” 

She could hear his feet tapping outside, like he was contemplating whether to come in. From the little habits and quirks of his she had observed and catalogued in the short time they’d spent together, Riza imagined he would have been raking a hand through his hair with one hand, with the other resting on his hip. (Roy had a tendency to do that whenever he was brooding, or trying to suppress his frustrations. Especially when work was involved.) 

Riza inhaled deeply. She steeled herself. Her fingers curled around the edges of her shirt, soft and redolent of the lavender soap that they both used to do the laundry. 

She got up and opened the door at last, leaving Hayate behind under the bed. 

“Sorry. I just… I guess I just felt a little tired.”

The apology weighed heavy on her tongue, bitter and acidic like blood. 

“Not at all,” Roy smiled, though his eyes were still dark with worry. It reminded her of how he looked at the hospital when she’d first awoken to the real world; her very first memory of him. Riza remembered the way he’d fussed over her, reassuring her with his gentle murmurs and even gentler touches even as she behaved in a manner that was terribly unbecoming of an adult. He had been so patient, so tirelessly attentive of her every need even when it so obviously tired him out. 

Even when it brought him nothing but anguish. 

“Is… something the matter?” Riza prompted, keeping her tone carefully neutral. 

“I just wanted to make sure everything’s alright. Are you hungry yet? I can get dinner for us, if you’d like.” 

_I don’t deserve your kindness,_ Riza wanted to say. Instead she deflected his question with a question. (Perhaps somewhere, deep down, she felt like it was a way she could make herself useful. A little less burdensome.) 

“I’m not. Are _you_ hungry, though? I could get dinner started for us, if you’d like.” 

“No, I’m not,” Roy shook his head, offering her another gentle smile. “Riza…” 

Riza felt her insides stir with some inexplicable emotion at the tentativeness in his voice. She collected herself with a sharp, steady inhale. “What’s wrong?” 

“Can we talk for a minute?” Roy said at last. His smile turned pinched, tight; an imploring look in his eyes as if he’d anticipated that her instinctive response would have been to shy away. And Riza had wanted to do just that: to return to the safety of isolation and withdraw back, further and further until she disappeared into the shadows. 

But she hadn’t the heart to turn him down. 

“Sure. What about?” 

“Let’s sit down first,” Roy said. Unsettling as it was, Riza was about to invite him into her room, until he led her towards the small bench on his balcony. 

The evening air was crisp, chilly. Roy brought out a linen blanket, laying it across their lap as he sat beside her with an unreadable expression on his face. The close propinquity unnerved Riza. She felt like she was being laid bare, exposed like the loose threads decorating the blanket’s worn edges. 

Keeping her head down, Riza began to pluck at them nervously, as if they weren’t already on the verge of falling apart. Then she heard the sound of water meeting glass, a small, gentle trickling. Riza looked up. 

The smell of sweet, boiled chrysanthemums filled the air.

“Tea?” 

Riza inspected Roy’s bandaged wrists as he held the steaming mug out to her. She accepted it gratefully. “Thank you.” Riza took a sip, chafing her hands against the warm porcelain. Then she asked again, in an attempt to delay the inevitable: “How are your wounds?” 

“Much better,” Roy said. Smoothing an imaginary crease in the blanket, he leaned back against the bench and gazed skywards to admire the final vestiges of sunlight. 

Riza did the same. The sky was painted a sweet, pastel lilac; tendrils of white drifting towards the unknown to retire for the night. In the tender stillness of the light, even Roy looked a little younger, a little less tired than he probably was. 

“It’s a lovely evening.” 

“It is,” Roy hummed in agreement. Then his features seized up again. With a plaintive sigh, he turned back to face her. “I wanted to apologise for this afternoon, Riza.” 

“What for?” Riza asked, genuinely confused.

“I know lunch wasn’t the most… amenable of events,” Roy began levelly. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up along with the sudden breeze that brought along with it a sad, sombre tune from across. “Sorry if it - if _I_ made you uncomfortable -” 

“You didn’t,” Riza interjected, gentle but insistent. “You did nothing wrong. Edward’s a very sweet boy. It was nice meeting him.” And it was true. It was her fault, and hers alone. She’d ruined it for everyone and cast a gray cloud over what was supposed to be a simple reunion. 

(Maybe if she’d been a little better at concealing her emotions. Maybe if she’d been better at keeping up, at _remembering_.)

“I’d say that’s questionable,” Roy laughed. “He can be a real pain to deal with, when he wants to be. A complete nightmare. Gives me a massive headache every now and then.” 

“I wouldn’t have been able to tell,” Riza smiled weakly. Her words rang hollow, a dirge to an absent memory. 

“He was really happy to see you today, though.” 

Was he really? Riza’s insides writhed, turning into ice. She felt like she’d pulverized whatever joy the boy must have felt. In her mind, the image of his radiant smile quickly vanished into anger and sorrow and frustration. 

“Me, too.” 

Roy’s concern was equally insistent. He shuffled in a little, not close enough for them to be touching, but close enough that she could feel the anxious warmth radiating off him like a shivering, jittery rabbit searching for its companion in the bushes. 

“Is there something else bothering you, then?” 

“... Not really.” 

Rising quietly, she stepped towards the edge of the balcony. Riza heard Roy following behind, then beside her, settling his elbows against the weathered, peeling balustrade. 

He did not prod further. 

Riza sighed, equal parts relieved and sorry. She turned to watch the flurry of activity going on in the apartments opposite. A slovenly-looking, middle-aged woman was trying to control a couple of rambunctious kids flailing their arms wildly in the air, like monkeys in a menagerie on display. Perhaps she was trying to get them ready for dinner? Riza imagined the affection that must have battled exasperation underneath her dishevelled appearance, and the constant struggle to reign in the latter to avoid upsetting her children. Or charges, whatever it was. 

Maybe that was what Roy meant when he said Edward could be, in his words, “a real pain”. 

Wrapping her arms around herself, Riza turned to observe the unit beside. A man and a woman were having dinner together, laughing raucously together as if they were the only ones in their own little island. 

Her grip tightened, as if she were trying to hold herself together. Would there ever be a time where she could be in a position like that, she wondered? Where people could be that comfortable around her, and she, too? 

Riza turned to peer at Roy cautiously through her damp lashes. He stood still, pensively quiet as he slouched over the edge casually to observe the darkening horizon. 

“I…” Riza trailed off. An aching twist rose in her throat. _I feel like I’ve done something wrong,_ she wanted to say. _I hurt a child._ There were so many other things leaping around in her mind, begging to be admitted like a secret at its wit’s ends. _I’m sorry for troubling you. For forgetting you. I’m more trouble than I’m worth._

“You can tell me anything, you know,” Roy said, sincere and beseeching. It was almost enough to coax the words, the agonising truth out of her.

Riza saw the silent plea in his eyes and very nearly caved. 

“I know.” 

Then she bit her lip and closed up like a pocket watch. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk,” Roy soothed, still with the same earnest patience in his voice. Would there ever be a limit to it? Surely it had to come to an end, eventually. Even his patience couldn’t be infinite. “But I’m always here if you need anything, Riza. Always.” 

Riza offered him a miserable ghost of a smile. “Thank you. You, too.” 

Then she inhaled deeply, as if collecting herself, and smelt the bittersweet scent of impending rain. 

A light drizzle soon started. It began, slow and graceful as it encountered the swaying branches, then gradually grew heavier until it bent the budding leaves to its will. 

Riza wondered if Edward was alright. She hoped he wasn’t caught in the rain, wherever he was. It wouldn’t do him any good — especially with his metal leg. (She’d noticed it earlier, heard the dissonance between metal and wood, but hadn’t asked for fear she would offend him somehow.) 

From the corner of her eye, she saw Roy’s hand tremble against the cold metal of the balustrade. Maybe he was bothered by something, too. Was the rain associated with something unkind for him? A part of her wish she knew. Perhaps then she might’ve been able to bring some comfort, be of some utility to him.

But she didn’t. 

Ignoring the dull ache blooming in her back, Riza let her fingers drift a little closer to Roy’s. 

“I hope Edward’s alright.” 

“I’m sure he is. The kid’s a strong one,” Roy remarked. Gently, so gently she might’ve missed it if she weren’t paying attention, Roy grazed the side of his hand against hers and leaned in closer. 

Riza returned the gesture. Seeing the way his expression softened with relief, Riza allowed herself to lean in slightly, relishing in the strange comfort that his touch brought — almost like it was a sensation begging to be remembered. 

Yet, even in the warmth of his palm, the boy’s golden eyes — bright like the sun but dimmed by deep sorrow — still plagued her mind.

**~x~**

Ed ran into the train, heaving and panting as he glared at the oblivious conductor who’d pretended like he hadn’t existed. How could he not have seen him, with his bright red coat that screamed bloody murder and his flailing arms and rage-filled expletives. 

“Thanks,” Ed called angrily as the doors closed shut. 

The train conductor ignored him once more. 

Huffing exasperatedly, Ed trudged down the aisle and plonked himself down on a seat by the window. No one dared sit beside or in front of him, which he was tremendously grateful for. He just wanted - no, _needed_ \- some time to stew alone with his anger and frustration and self-reproach. 

A sharp squeal resounded; the familiar sound of a locomotive coming to life. Wheels screeched against freshly-oiled tracks as the carriage shook with the force of being dragged from its slumber. Children scrambled to look out the window — some in fear, others in awe as a conductor yelled for people to stay seated. 

Ed smirked to himself, amused by their flagrant defiance and feeling oddly vindicated that the conductors were now on the receiving end of ignorance. 

With one last quaking shudder, the train began to depart the city, leaving in its wake a thick, dense trail of steam and smoke. 

Ed exhaled and reclined on the seat, leaning against the window as he watched immobile fixtures flit past in a blur. He stretched a hand out and flexed his tan, callused fingers almost experimentally — the way he’d test them for functionality whenever he got a new automail arm. 

Then his fingers curled into a fist, nails biting angrily into human flesh. 

Why was it that others always got the shorter end of the stick, while _he_ got away? Ed thought of Al, his beloved brother, who’d lost his body and was still struggling with rehab and nightmares even after getting it back — even though it’d been _his_ ingenious idea, his foolish initiation to bring their mother back to life. He thought of his teacher, whose missing womb left her barren and childless; something that couldn’t be fixed with steel and nails. Then there was Lieutenant Hawkeye — who, in many ways, reminded him of his mother; what with her ability to see right through all his carefully constructed facades, his disguised anger at the world. Now she’d lost her memory and had no idea who he was. Ed reckoned it was like losing one’s mind. Probably something worse. He recalled that one time where Al questioned his entire existence; whether he was a fraud, a phony, because he wasn’t sure if his memories were real or make-believe. 

Ed couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like for her. And as much as he wanted to blame Mustang, he was equally culpable, too. The Lieutenant would’ve never gotten into this mess if he’d acted faster. If he’d just… just done _something_ down there. 

But he hadn’t. All he’d done was stare blankly at her unconscious form like a complete idiot. 

Some genius he was. 

“Can I get you anything, boy? Tea, or something?” 

Ed started, staring dumbly at the middle-aged, matronly server who had somehow materialised beside him in the intervening time. 

“Well?” 

“U-uh,” he stuttered, struggling to articulate a coherent thought. “Just tea will be fine, thank you.” 

Normally he would’ve been ravaging a stale, only half-warm sandwich on a train like this as Al sat across him over a stack of cards, but he hadn’t the appetite to even think about, much less devour food at the moment. 

The server nodded cheerfully. “Got it,” and she returned as quickly as she’d left, a steaming mug of tea in her hands. “Here you go, young man. Enjoy.” 

“Thanks,” he said, offering a strained smile. 

The lady nodded acknowledgment and left him alone with his thoughts. 

Ed leaned forward and blew gently at the steam, watching as it rippled like waves in a tiny, contained ocean before sipping at it. A bitterness rounded his tongue like vomit. His fingers — now meaty flesh, warm against porcelain — trembled against the handle, worried and remorseful. 

Ed sighed and looked out of the window, searching for something to anchor himself to so his thoughts wouldn’t run off into the wild. He observed the changing landscapes, noting the new additions and subtractions. Inadvertently his mind began to draw comparisons and conclusions again. 

Things were changing, and rapidly. Industrialisation, the great harbinger of change, was coming; bringing along with it its attendant promises of construction and destruction. One building, one valley at a time. Cars would take the place of horses, pristine black wheels instead of mud-caked hooves. Even now, as the buildings got — dare he say the dreaded words — smaller and shorter, the view was polluted with undeniable stretches of orange-and-white bands; monstrous cranes and excavated plains. A lone, big tree, standing in the middle of a flat plain like an oversized broccoli, was barricaded by a fence: a sure sign that it would soon be uprooted. 

Soon there might be nothing left even of the countryside, Ed thought. 

Ed had no idea what the military was up to this time, now that he no longer had his silver pocket watch to access internal documents. One could only hope that Mustang would do a good job of things and eventually achieve his goal of building a democracy. How, Ed wasn’t sure; he was a scientist, not a politician. Such things were not within his purview or expertise. But after being with Mustang and the rest of the team for so long, he, too, dreamed of a country where liberties could be protected, where people could be free — 

_Where the people can put us on trial for our crimes._

Ed blanched. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he sipped at his tea once more, chafing his fingers against the curved surface. 

He thought of the last time he had tea with the Lieutenant. In a moment of unbridled honesty and unexpected vulnerability, she’d shared their goals with him, voice deadly calm as she cleaned a blood-clotted pistol. As if she hadn’t minded in the least that she was practically headed to the gallows. Ed had remonstrated, then, but eventually came to accept the gravity of the situation. (Besides, a trial was not the same as a conviction... Or so he hoped.) What he had thought was mere self-sacrifice and injustice was tainted by his own inexperienced beliefs. Ed could not even begin to comprehend the enormity of war, even after meeting Scar, and the Lieutenant had made it clear that it was ultimately her penance to pay. Her choice to make. 

And now, she was left bereft of both. 

Ed removed his coat and rolled it up into a makeshift pillow, suddenly feeling very warm as rage coursed through him like fire. He stuffed it behind his neck and leaned back as the conclusion of his earlier musings came crashing down on him. 

One, he hadn’t lost that much. His suffering paled in comparison to what the rest had to endure, and it simply wasn’t _fair._ Al had been unduly influenced by him, and the Lieutenant hadn’t even opened the Gate of her own choice. 

And two, he’d failed miserably. 

Again. 

What a letdown he was. 

Ed sighed and squeezed his eyes shut, feeling so hopeless that he might’ve been inclined to pray. His mind continued to dwell in failure for the rest of the train ride, until he fell into a fitful slumber. 

In his dreams, he saw his mother waiting for him at the Gate, a kind and gentle smile on her pale, delicate features, until it began to distort into the Lieutenant’s - no, it wasn’t her. It couldn’t be. Blood-drenched hair covered its indistinguishable features. Not her. Almond-shaped nails, growing and twisting and curling into something cruel, something blade-like, until the _thing_ crawled up from the muddy earth with its purplish, glowing eyes to pierce his chest — 

Ed woke with a start, gasping for breath. His forehead was clammy with sweat, eyes blinking furiously as if trying to shake off the lingering shock. His right arm strayed to the old, star-shaped scar draped across his torso, resting innocuously under layers of leather and cloth. 

Ed heaved again. Just a dream. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d had plenty of this, before. Just guilt flaring up like an old ailment again. 

Well, nothing new. 

“Resembool!” 

Ed blinked. Draping his coat over his shoulder, he gathered his things and rushed towards the exit, forcing himself to breathe. 

Steadily, now. In, out. Just a dream.

Nothing he couldn’t handle. 

“Resembool!” the same conductor yelled, eyeing him almost haughtily. 

Ed shoved the same irritating conductor out of his way, hopped off, and caught his breath before stretching almost triumphantly. He looked around him, taking in the sights one by one. This was real. The bucolic plains, the rough hills and valleys spotted with daisies and lavender and tall blades of grass, dancing in the wind before birds and strays trampled on their short-lived joy. 

Ed blinked and turned to the waiting area. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Al was already there, waiting on the weather-beaten bench with a smile glimmering as brightly as the afternoon sun. His shoes shone with a sparkle such that it was sure he’d just polished it before leaving the house — a habit he hadn’t quite kicked from having to clean his armour of a body for five years. A brown coat hung limply off his still emaciated figure.

“Brother!” Al called. He got up and hobbled over on a wooden crutch, corduroy trousers fluttering in the wind as his body shook with the tremendous effort it took to plough itself over the gravelly terrain. 

Ed picked up his pace so that Al would not need to strain his atrophied muscles, offering a half-hearted smile. 

“I’m back, Al. Where’s Win?” 

“She had to tend to a customer. Said it was urgent, so I thought I’d come around to pick you up myself.” 

Not that he needed any picking up, of course. Ed knew that Al was just excited to hear about how everyone was doing. It had been with extreme reluctance that he’d accepted that he could not possibly tag along — the strain on his aching, healing body would be far too great. Even the walk from their house to the train station had seemed to drain all the life out of Al, his complexion pale and stark amidst the billowing clouds of train smoke. 

“Al,” he chided. “You shouldn’t have walked here by yourself —“ 

“I know, I know,” he interjected. Ed swore he could’ve heard Al’s heaving from a hundred miles away. “You would have done the same, though. Broken automail leg and all.” 

And Ed would have, so he didn’t argue further. 

“Well, let’s get going, then. I’m starving.” 

Ed began to lead the way back home, limbs as heavy as his heart. 

“How’s everyone?” Al asked cheerily, though there was a wistful sadness in his eyes as he limped along beside the sprouting daisies, mindful not to kill them with his small, petite frame.

Ed swallowed uncomfortably. “Not too bad. Colonel Bastard’s still as annoying as ever.” 

“What’d he call you for?” 

Ed’s smile faded into a thin, hard line. _Some crap related to bio-alchemy. Nina. Then stuff blew up._ “It’s… a long story.” 

“... Something about the Lieutenant?” 

_Not really_ , Ed wanted to say, but he figured that was Al’s greatest concern at the moment. 

Ed nodded, slowing his pace a little as the bitterness resurfaced. His nails pressed deep into his palm. 

“And… how is she?” Al probed. His footsteps were slow and deliberate against the green stubbles, laced with worry and apprehension. Ed knew that this was Al’s true question. They’d both been equally concerned about the Lieutenant since… since everything. 

Since everything went to shambles, Ed thought. 

To think he’d dared to believe they had made decent progress since setting out on their journey. How naive. The memory of Nina still stung when he thought of Tucker in the ruined lab, like acid poured out on an open wound. The sheer injustice of everything that had happened to the Lieutenant only worsened it. 

(It was like going back to square one. Tragedy, all over again.)

“Not good, Al.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to @RainFlame for being the best beta I could ever ask for. This chapter could not have been possible without your help, and without your constant reassurance while I was on the verge of chickening out and not posting altogether. I LOVE YOU, and you are incredible 💕
> 
> -
> 
> Thank you so, so much to everyone who's been reading and following and commenting on this story thus far. It means the world to me that someone else is enjoying this little story (well, maybe not so little, considering it was supposed to just be ten chapters long at first lmao) of mine as much as I'm enjoying the entire writing process. Your comments have been incredibly helpful in writing and planning the subsequent chapters, so thank YOU 🥰
> 
> Please leave a comment if you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought! Feedback and concrit are always welcome :) Or come say hi on Tumblr if you're there - I'm @firewoodfigs :) 
> 
> I'd also like to apologise for the long wait - I hope the slightly longer chapter made up for the inordinate delay? :') So sorry to keep you all hanging like that :( I finished the bar exam about a month ago, had to sleep for a week, and December kept me unexpectedly with books left unread on my shelf, along with some very lovely friends who I had the pleasure of catching up with. And suddenly it's already 2021, like what... Where did all that time go? On a side note, I hope 2021 has been off to a good start for all of you so far! May the new year be kinder to us all 💖 
> 
> \- 
> 
> A few notes about this chapter: 
> 
> (1) A slight break from all the action here - a lot of things are going on at home, now, but next chapter we're going to get out of the house (literally) and things are going to get more... interesting ;) I won't reveal too much, but I've updated the tags a little to hint at what's going to happen next :) 
> 
> (2) I hope the disparity in Roy's voice when he's talking to Ed versus when he's interacting to Riza wasn't too jarring! I deliberately wrote him that way because I feel like he's oftentimes a lot more childish around Ed, because he's just an unwitting parent who's still living in denial after all these years. There, I said it xD (Just shut up and adopt him already Roy we know you care for the kid) In contrast, I think he tends to be a lot more serious where Riza is involved because of their intricate, complex history and the guilt that's been weighing down on him. 
> 
> (3) Riza's reflections after the lunch with Ed was personally the toughest part of this chapter for me. It was a challenge to think of what someone with memory loss would struggle with and yearn for. In Riza's case, considering her tendency for self-reproach I think she'd most likely be frustrated with the fact that she's burdening all those around her and hurting them, even if unintentionally. While she tends to come off somewhat aloof - at least on the outside - I think Riza is also someone who longs for companionship and a sense of belonging, especially as someone who's spent most of her childhood alone in the countryside. This comes up in her subconscious without her realising, and I hope I managed to convey it in this chapter! 
> 
> (4) Ed's observations about industrialisation is a hint as to what's to come in the next chapter :) his guilt complex was very interesting to navigate as well. It was a bit of a gamble for me, deciding whether to write the last bit from Ed's POV, but I wanted to draw out the parallels between him and Riza further. Just, yknow, a boy and one of his many adoptive mothers lolol :') 
> 
> (5) About Al's cameo - I think I might've mentioned in an a/n somewhere that while this is predominantly a fic about royai, each character will have their own unique role to play as well. Al is no exception to this rule, though we'll probably only know some time down the road ;) 
> 
> -
> 
> I can't quite remember all that I wanted to say in this a/n LOLOL but I think I've rambled for enough, and I'm off to bed now so that I can prepare for my official first day of adulthood... (yes I'm starting work tomorrow *screams into the void*) but I promise I will find the time to continue this fic and keep writing - it's one of my top resolutions for 2021 :) 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you have the time! I'll see you in the next chapter, hopefully sooner rather than later. Till then, take care and stay safe, everyone! ☺️💜


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